Today I finished my book ‘Menses.’

I started it last November when I was sick with the worst flu I’ve ever experienced in my fucking life.

I had a fever for 10 days.

A headache that hummed in my head for 15 days.

Body aches as if I had been hit by a car.

I couldn’t taste anything for two months.

By the last month, I developed a cough that kept me up at night because I couldn’t lie down, or else the coughing would start up again.

I was immobile and feared death daily.

John was working, so I was alone and scared he’d come home to find a bloated corpse.

So I wrote out a will, and started bleeding.

At that moment, I decided to take the pain of bleeding and this new slow death and create something that spoke about the thoughts that crept up during this intense time.

I turned 40 that December.

Then, my body started doing strange things.

My dreams were so vivid.

My conversations with my mother and myself changed.

While John was at work, I did some blind contouring pen drawings of my uterus, and drew vaginas in watercolor.

Took weird painful nudes.

I also recreated (badly in ink and markers) my favorite painting of all time, “The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife.”

The year ended, then 2020 started, and we all know the rest of the story.

But, a stranger thing happened.

First, I recovered.

I was sick from November 18th 2019 to February 17th 2020.

After recovering, quarantine started soon after, and then my period got weird.

I wondered how many other women were in as much pain as me and sure enough, it was the collective.

Women were bleeding painfully all over the globe.

So many complained about the amount of blood, and the excruciating pains unlike any other time they’d bled. They felt wicked and reminisced on things they shouldn’t—again, more so than before, it was thwarted. The blood was boiling.

So I wrote and wrote and bled and bled and I finally wrote my last poem today.

I wrote this last poem while I cried, looking back at this last year knowing things will never ever be the same ever again.

I have to be ok with that, and I am.



the finite self is a lie and I’m yawning

Day 41 of this “yoga challenge.

Have I lost weight? I don’t know, I don’t ever weigh myself.

I rely on how far down I can bend, or how good my clothes fit.

I feel good, with pangs of strangenesses pummeling my body.

A migraine, a sharp pain in my gut, a broken finger, a sore shoulder.

Life is hard.

We are all dying, regardless of how much we try to convince ourselves by plugging into our strange cell phone worlds that we are not. 

I feel it every day.

I am kinda always turned on by existential bullshit.

I cry and get aroused at the thought of ceasing to exist.

I look at my husband and wonder how I got to be in this reality with him, and I cry at how delicately he says my name, and then as if time was lost, we are making love and then, I am asleep fighting nightmares from my teeth. 

It’s all simple really.

But we like making it difficult.

I think once we realize that the key to happiness is accepting how unhappy we can be whilst understanding that that too will fade and that life is just a series of patterns, like seasons, we expand and grow and wilt and die and that we are not special, but the plants certainly are, then we’ll be—ok.


they’ll clap when you’re gone

The start of Fall, Libra season. 

The last time anything felt “normal” was in March—Pisces season, when the planets were in retrograde and I was at a bar at midnight on a Wednesday after a shift at work.

Today, I am unemployed, sober, and looking forward to the equinox and all the memories this time of year brings.

Usually, it’s a musical nostalgia.

Back in 2013, I was playing Pain is Beauty by Chelsea Wolfe more times than I will ever know. 

When music is medicine, I imbibe—I overdose.

Hiss Spun also came out during the equinox in 2017, a year where everything changed.

That was the year I participated in my first poetry reading ever. I had never even considered going outside of my apartment with my words, let alone say that shit out loud, but there I was, drunk and in a room full of people, one of them was to become my husband ten months later.

Music sets a timeline, it brings with it seasons and the scents of whatever lived in the back of your throat when you were too afraid to swallow. 

I usually thrive during the summer. I enjoy the suffering of heatwaves and insomnia. 

I love listening to the hot waves of cars and the predictable screams of drunk lovers. 

Birth of Violence came out during this time last year, on my grandfather’s death day and my husband’s father’s death day.

Oh coincidence, it feels so good. 

Numbers follow us.

We drove to the cemetery where I will one day be buried and looked at the land we own, prickly and unkempt, a statue of an Apostle nearby, my grandfather a few feet away. 

Rotting corpse, nothing but bones now, while I’m stepping lovingly on his grave, alive and paranoid at what I ate earlier that day and afraid of the two beers I had in his honor. 

And in one year, everything changed.

Now, most are more dead than alive these days. My beautiful grandfather has more soul in his grave than these regurgitated corpses I see when I drive around to go to the grocery store. 

I don’t miss my old life of bad customers and clueless managers.

Of verbal abuse and the occasional sexual harassment.

I don’t miss traffic or crowds.

I do however, miss cemeteries and being able to breathe and smile into the wind and not care who catches it.


bye Instagram. bye Facebook. sup Twitter?

I did it—again, I left two out of three social media(s).

I feel triumphant and lame, mostly because it seems like such a benign thing to “accomplish.”

But, my everything is suffering. I feel beat down and most people know me as the smiling woman and right now all I wanna do is cry.

I’ve been crying for days.

Everything sends a feeling, and there I am, pouring saltwater into my open mouth. I don’t mind, but it must be so strange looking me burst into tears almost every hour.

I sleep, wake up and cry.

I cry before I drift to sleep.

I cry when I awake.

I cry when I shower, when I bathe.

When I’m getting a drink of water, when I’m looking out the window into the hot street.

When the ambulance passes by, when my phone rings.

When the mail comes.

In-between the crying, I have taken up a “yoga challenge” because I have gained a significant amount of quarantine weight.

I feel rotund and I’d like to feel more slick, more able, so I’m on day 7 and my thighs are sore and my forward bend is getting better as is my downward dog.

My body is waking up and it feels like the only alarm I care to pay attention to.

Here’s a picture of me from yesterday, for reference after these 30 days are done.

For now, I’m gonna go try not to cry.



Yes folx, I did it. I made the move.

It was hard to do it, mostly because I thought I was losing integrity.

But, quite the opposite feeling took over me, and I am so grateful to be doing this. I already write daily, so—that part is easy.

Here is the link in case you are interested in joining me in a more intimate setting haha

Really though, I am hyped and will start posting mostly life updates here, and my more “creative” stuff over on Patreon.


I’ve gained weight, cut my hair and got a therapist.

My father is sick, and so is my mother.

My step-brother has Covid and my aunt is getting both legs amputated.

I have been in the middle of a flare-up which basically makes it hard to do most anything. But I have my husband and I am lucky to be in such caring hands.

That’s it for now.



a day like any other day

Billie Holiday plays from the record player, 

and my tie-dye shirt is baffled at the contrast,

at the serenity of the music 

and the chaos of the traffic below,

where does the clarinet fit in?

Fears, well they, they are the end of everything. I have so many and I am constantly reminded that I am not alone in this, which brings no comfort.


How could me thinking that others feel like I feel bring comfort? 

How could anyone use that as a balm?

Regardless, they remain.

I know I should work on self-control, and perhaps even get myself a therapist,* but that requires work, more work than I can do when I am feeling this way. Mostly, I just want to get through one day, one fucking day where I don’t feel like dying.

(next day)

Today is a different day and my feelings have shifted. When my gut feels bad, so does every other part of me. This includes my brain and my thoughts. We all do it. There’s no sense in trying to pretend. 

John said something beautiful to me yesterday. He always says beautiful things, but those are harder to remember.

He said that he can feel how hard I’ve been working on my mental health because his body has begun to relax. He said he felt it the last time he took a hot bath.

I have.

I have been working very hard to keep my demons at bay. They come and I can make them go away by reminding myself of the beautiful things I have around me, like this oil diffuser I can smell as I type this. He encourages me to buy things that make me happy. I always have trouble with that. Being happy has always been hard for me. More like staying happy…

“How much do you love me?” he asks.

“More than anything in this world!” I answer.

“I’m ready to start living and be happy,” I say with a hug.

“I’m ready to relax into this love.” he hugs me tighter, understanding that I mean it this time, that I will fail again, but that I mean it.

We had such a rough start.” I say—he breathes into my shoulder and says I’m sorry—I feel it, this sorry and my apology are different this time. 

Everything is different this time. 

I am in my new space and the cold air is blowing on me and I can see DTLA from here.

It is a beautiful life. 

I want to believe that the things I do in my waking life will equal to be just as important as any other person that walks this Earth.

I am tired of feeling unworthy.

*I got a therapist!


a day without pain

barren fur soft 


in pieces a 



in eyes 

instead of candles

to move around a 


you’ve already memorized,

lipped red 

a scandal 

in the bedroom,

a subtlety 

in grocery aisles—

unmarked but stolen from, 

you are

a bank robbed 

and feathers plucked

you are all 

that makes annihilation

and nothing that lives 

without a fight



there are certain things that stick, 

San Gabriel Valley things, 

that sink

into a poem…

this is a drink

and a cheers 

for a moment in time, 

I want to leave behind—

Valley Blvd., 605 duck farm, Bassett, unincorporated “town,

in or near or alongside La Puente

which translates to Bridge

and known among the locals

as Bridgetown…

It’s not complicated, 

you live in a place and that place loses its grace or it holds it in place,

and you stay like a battered wife stays

trying to hold space

you can criticize me or this town

I do it all the time,

 and if you’re from there,

you know that

the words you say 

I’ll make you swallow down—

meet me on the corner of Amar and, 

no, the railroad tracks on Valley Blvd., 

by the McDonald’s,

where the largest stretch of strip bars live,

where the Satanists have parties 

for their 18th birthdays—and you’re invited

taco stands, 

like any other town, 

only in this town it hits different, 

goat meat tacos on June 6, 2006

…in it are ghosts in the parking lots of churches, 

where you park and 

watch a woman give head to a man

more than likely

not her husband

as you listen to BAUHAUS with a boy who looks like Steven Tyler, 

only gangster…

you take a hit of nasty, brown, dry weed, 

Steven Tyler smiles at you 

and you think he’s cute

but he’s boring

and I’m on hold from my dreams, 

so fuck it, 

enjoy it

your purple gel pager goes off,


I call him from the payphone in front of Chris’s burgers, 

Puente and Amar,

if you know


nothing serious, just faggot shit—

He lives on Ragus St., your best friend, 

Ragus is sugar backwards,” 

he tells everyone that shit/

that was his catchphrase before he ran away to WeHo, 

now you can watch him on Zoom as Abortia Clinik: LIVE FROM LAS VEGAS

doing drag to the songs 

we used to blast 

while we were high 

off his father’s Pretendo—

Summer in the SGV while driving on the 605 in the 90’s was exquisite

25,000 ducks smelled like home, and

if you’ve a penchant for Peking duck 

and had the wheels to take you somewhere fancy 

not fries and a coke for 3 dollars at Chris’s,

and you lived in L.A. in the 60’s

say thank you 605 duck farm three times for good luck—

An ode to the devil the moon and the muck…


google search me

google search me under Ingrid Calderon and 
the girl with no eyebrows appears, 
crooked stance, 
straight smile—
a carving in 
the fold of 
her cleavage/
google search me under Ingrid M. Calderon-Collins
and the woman with eyebrows appears,
spine erect, 
crooked smile—
a carving in 
the fold of 
her cleavage/
everything is
and happiness
still lives 
in the breasts 
of my laughter,
sometimes cures, 
when it doesn’t,
it resembles bread 
squished between palms,
blood on nailbeds and 
scars from when I mattered 
so much I gave up my ability 
to feel.
google search me but don’t believe 
the flowers in my mouth or between my teeth,
lies stain the screen,
poems cause disease
a disease called, 
I have something to say, LISTEN TO ME!”
regardless if it’s
an earthquake 
or a longing, 
or a plagiarized lick of an envelope


allusion of illusion

speak basic and listen to the flowery poets of our time,

the ones that say so much with so much and so much and say nothing at all.

the ones that hate Bukowski but love Cheesecake Factory, 

yes you, 

I see you, 

but I still love you, 

because unlike you, 

I know everyone is flawed and frayed and nothing is truly really ours anyway.

I am all glamour filtered lie, 

I am you on dollar bills stuck lovingly on the inside of my thigh,

old cigarette burns on my labia majora, 

because bodies are ours to make into fauna and flora,

I don’t like repeating myself, it is the cynical death of my creativity, 

to not be listened to the first time, the first time, the first time,

three chants conjure up gates of teeth and tongue and a medley of horses and daffodils, 

all basic world things that depress and suppress the real idea behind what we think sets us apart from every other living human thing with the same parts, 

almost but not quite. 

That’s the thing I will say once more, mostly to myself because like most, I am in disgust of the breathing lives that I come across on my trips to the grocery store,

I’ll say it once, only once, only once,

don’t ponder or cry when I say it…

promise you’ll try to see the reasons why, 

take a seat, 

lay down and look at the big vast blue sky,

get ready,


get ready—