Galactic Rabbit January 2016!



  1. Listen for the low faint hum, likened to a heartbeat. The abandoned wild paradox of one movement, one life, one existence, and billions of existences. The secret glyph of infinity tattoed on your third eye; do you feel it? / Moon Angels Malakh Halevanah Cards/ Ryan Rebekah Erev


Dear Galaxy of Moon Rabbits,

It took me a long time to write these little letters. I carried each of you with me, chanting the Zodiac under my breath on subway rides, poetry readings, and dinner parties that lasted into the morning. I wanted to give you something good, as a blessing. When this New Year broke open, I was leaving my mother’s house for the second time in my life, broken-hearted (again) over her inability to love me like I need to be loved (wholly). I felt poor and, in many ways, alone. But, I was not alone and I was not poor. My friends were a rich circle of love around me and my girlfriend affixed my mattress to her car with a true butch grace. Dear reader, you were also with me—giving me purpose.

Let this be the year we make better fools of ourselves. Let this be the year that the love we need comes to us in great generous waves—even if it is not from the direction we’ve been looking toward. Let this be the year that justice feels possible, imaginable. In a world where power is always linked to subjugation, let this be the year we speak to power and it learns to say our names with tenderness in its mouth.


All My Love,
Gala Galactic Rabbit


P.S. Thank you Claire for being the best reader and the most Clairvoyant.

P.P.S. If you want to make a small donation to the writing of these letters, I appreciate all donations. I am endlessly grateful for the gifts I receive and they help me sustain my practice (and fill my refrigerator). Also, the “monthly” function doesn’t work!





What do you dream when the Black Sea calls you home? A body racked with dreaming. I don’t know, dear friend, I’ve all but lost the language of the sea. I wake with an image of my mouth, as if it is all I can remember. I haven’t walked down to the ocean shore, or braced myself against that salt wind singing there.

Have you? Have you left footprints along the wet sand, cold water lapping your numb ankles, a small body sinking into the pliant earth? If neither of us are there… I’ve found you through internet light-beams, here in my dark room where I’ve placed three Lightening Whelks on my windowsill and a knife shaped like a mermaid’s tail.

Come over. Our rooms keep us safe while we lose the ones we love. Let’s make mobiles out of planets that we know and watch them dance across the ceiling: this is Mercury, this is Ceres, a woman’s face with her future cut right out. This crumbling vortex of beautiful sorrows—it needs us, doesn’t it? That’s why it keeps breaking our hearts, because it needs us—poor thing.



“I must be a mermaid,” said (Pisces) Anais Nin. “I have no fear of depths and a great fear of shallow living.” To love you is to follow you past the body’s limits. All my life, I have walked to the edge of a darkly lit pier and leapt off for you. There, in the underwater world, were sunken Wonder Wheels and glittering scales of women dressed like gorgeous demons.

In the silt sand caverns where we slow danced, a jukebox drowned the sad woman songs. Crazy for tryin’… crazy for cryin’…. crazy for loving you. Yes, you were crazy, I was crazy, in some dry universe the clock chimed midnight—we became regular girls kissing—and it was another year where no one knew how to give their heart to anyone fully and without regret.

Good thing, then, that some of us don’t belong in the dry universe. Pisces, it’s time for you to remember the world you were born to imagine, to create. A world where love is an underwater crystal cave and work is a coral reef—bright red and surprising to touch.



It was the Pride Weekend when I (wo)maned a booth for Parisa wearing panties that said Dirty Queer on the ass, fishnets, and knee high boots. When you came to me, I’m sure you knew I’d say yes. Days later, we drank a little whiskey, a pit bull puppy burrowed at my feet, and you played your accordion for me (yes, we lived inside a queer dream). I was not surprised to find you crying on top of me. I felt in that moment, as many femmes must, like a fragile nest holding a fragile bird.

And, it might do us good to examine who gets to be the nest and who gets to be the bird if we didn’t already know that we are always one and the other. And, it might serve us to negotiate ways in which lovers can be good to each other if I hadn’t said goodbye to you so easily, parked in a van by the needle exchange.

What I want to evoke is my ordinary cruelty: how you tried to give me a home—how I left you. Sometimes we are cruel, lover, sometimes leaving is the best we can do. And, if this year is new, it is new with our old stories inside it. We might make mistakes again, we might both be birds, but we are not as fragile as we were.



When, weeks ago, you offered me your empty apt, I was grateful but didn’t think much of it. We met over brunch and, afterward, three keys attached to a beaded strawberry fattened my pocket. How was I to know that I would spend NYE and the day following amongst your charged altars and magic cards? That your bed would carry my body and the women I love softly (as if for the first time) into the New Year, binding us together like flowers that know nothing about death?

One woman lying on her back with whale medicine at her throat—yes it was hers—but I thought of you and how you were with us watching. Recording the history of untethered love and wild resistance. I filled the bathtub with hot water and salt. Someone started crying in the laundry closet and we held her. In your home we were sanctified and made new.

If you are ever afraid your love is not enough, my hoofed angel, I stroke your fur and feel the golden threads. A world holding tiny worlds inside itself—you create micro universes with your loving attention. Anyone who is dear to you is dear to God.



If there were a time machine we would both get on. Go back to our young hearts, our small furred animals, leash-less. We would be gentle with ourselves, each other. I would let you find my hand in the dark; I would walk with you slowly toward who we are now.

Instead, I remember the way the world ate at you. How your body was a sliver in the night—shining and gone. I remember the dance floor and our delighting, the lovers who looked into you like one might into a mirror, the pills and potions that did you no good.

In a story about the edge of love and violence, Gemini Lidia Yuknavitch writes:

This is kind of how we get through our lives: we tell ourselves stories so that what’s happening becomes something we can live with. Necessary fictions.

Maybe I had some hard lessons to learn about the difference between doing good work and trying too hard to be a woman.

Woman. Like anyone even knows what that is still.

You don’t have to let fear write the story of your life. You don’t have to prove your worth. Our failures are just moments in time, the weight they bear is the weight we give them. This month, I want you to imagine that being a woman, being a man, being gender-fluid force never contained fully by the structures imagined in this lifetime is not about defining your limits. Imagine the edge of your destiny like a body blurring with the infinite universe. Your heart is shaped—more or less—like everyone’s heart, start there and work your way out.



In a small apartment, on NYE, we are like planets staying close to each other. If we are strangers, tonight we are not strangers. I am your witness, watch you pull yourself out of a bad orbit. I have so much to tell you already, you say. You put your hand on my back to steady yourself. Little moon, you change shape all night. Snake charmer. Fox barking the hungry call of midnight lovers who must risk it all to find each other. The pendulum swings open and wide beside your heart, for hours you wear a lightening bolt between your breasts.

This is an image of your power. On your best days, it saves you, brings the right people into your life and turns harmful energies away at the door. But, there are other days—days you have seen too much of lately—when your power to make the best of your environment becomes a burden, leaves you feeling depleted and smaller than yourself.

In my hand I am holding a card for you. It is the Eight Of Swords. It’s asking you to clear a mental path through the debris of expectations and emotional hang-ups that don’t belong to you. This card is asking you what boundaries mean to you, what you are willing to do to maintain them, and how honest you are willing to get when your wellbeing is on the line.



For as long as I can remember I have hated zoos. To see a lion pacing a small enclosure, his great haunches tight, his big beautiful head swinging from side to side—searching—it filled me with immense dread. I was afraid of a world that taught children such a cruel way to love an animal. But zoos are only emblematic of a larger cultural failure.

[A trophy hunter poses with her kill. She is proud and easy on the eyes, which does not mitigate the corpse that lies inanimate beside her. On the internet, someone asks, “What must’ve happened to you in your life to make you want to kill a beautiful animal & then lie next to it smiling?”]

We have been taught from a very early age, that to love something that is powerful we must strip it of its wildness, this desire to command love’s gaze and contrive devotion. We want to come very close, the tips of our noses almost brushing the bars of the cage so we can be intimate. But, one can’t love a lion like that.

There are times we must lie to get through this life and take care of others. But, if you have found yourself clawing at the walls…if a lover, or a job, or a project has left you feeling trapped—if you have felt your heart dying—don’t let yourself be tamed. To be alive is be free, Leo. Break the cage, come clean.



I get caught up in the word “deserve” often. What does it mean to deserve someone, something, some world beyond this one? When the Black college students of Yale and NYU demand a learning environment they might feel wholly seen and acknowledged in, should it matter whether someone deems them deserving in particular? Who are these someones that decide when “fair is fair,” and why do they matter?

The demand is the thing, a small bird with a hungry throat. If the birds are not fed, there are no birds, no music, no seeds, and no flowers—a chain broken. But, lovers, the chain belongs to everyone, its work is to keep this world together. Each link deserves the next.

O Virgo, I have seen you drag the broken chain behind you. I have seen you pocket fistfuls of food while birds starve in your heart. I can’t tell you what you deserve, Virgo, I can’t promise you that love is always going to be enough. But, in the great light of you magnanimous spirit and your soft sensitive heart, let me remind you this: what your pain wants most is forgiveness.



Every couple of years I notice articles circling the internet describing the passing down of intergenerational trauma. How our fears and sorrows, our deepest sources of grief, are etched into our DNA and delivered into the bodies that come from our bodies. A sadness like a vampire inside you—immortal. These sorts of scientific findings compel me to wonder how quiet pain is measured. I think about the way my mother’s face turns dark at the mention of sex. I think about my father’s bad heart and how, when we were states apart, my body felt him fall to the floor. I fell down too; I cracked my chin open. Unconscious, I pissed myself and was ashamed.

In an essay about Serena Williams, in Citizen, Claudia Rankine writes:

Yes, and the body has memory. The physical carriage hauls more than its weight. The body is the threshold across which each objectionable call passes into consciousness—all the unintimidated, unblinking, and unflappable resilience does not erase the moments lived through, even as we are eternally stupid or everlastingly optimistic, so ready to be inside, among, a part of the games.

 Libra, yesterday your body was a living record of all that has happened to you and before you. Today, your body is just a human body—it is muscle, blood, and bone. In order to protect it, the stories that evoke shame must have a different ending.  You must be brave enough to write them.



This summer, my lover was listening to Bonnie Rait sing Angel Of Montgomery with John Prine on the car radio. She was moved to tears and moved me with her. She’s been singing it all year now, another sign ruled by Mars. When I come to Bonnie, I go to the dark-side of Scorpio magic where the firey goodness I carry with me feels extinguished in the swamp of my depression.

Me, I’m lying in bed under this Mars Retrograde, Scorpio-singing along:

There’s flies in the kitchen I can hear ’em there buzzing
And I ain’t done nothing since I woke up today.
How the hell can a person go to work in the morning
And come home in the evening and have nothing to say.


Dear witch sister, if you, like me, can feel Mars spiral back inside you—hold on and ride. Despair is a good teacher to the ones of us who have been students of melancholy all our lives. Despair is a god we understand. This month let yourself carry the sad songs in your bones. Make skeleton music in your sleep. When the day rises, rise with it. Wear your invisible blue cloak to the office, reply to the emails while humming sodalite vibrations. Return home, get on your knees, pray.



Last night, at a bar in Bushwick, a Cancer friend and I talked about what it takes to overcome anxiety so that one might write—create—do the damn thing. “We must put lazy away,” I told her. “We’re not lazy, we would spend all night searching a moonlit desert for our lover’s ring, lose a whole afternoon to polishing our grandmother’s good silver. It’s just that writing terrifies us.”

In response to writing terror, her psychiatrist put her on a beta-blocker, a drug archers use to keep their arrows true. Stringing an imaginary bow across her chest, she mimed a pointed arrow and said, “there are pills that let you shoot steady between babum babum babum.” A parallel world exists, dear reader, where archers and writers share the same cyborgian cell structure in their aim toward perfection. “Are you still on the drug?” I asked her, enchanted by the futurity of our emotions, by the sound of an arrow that splits a heartbeat in half. “No. It took away my adrenaline.”

Turns out we need the terror to create, turns out there is no perfect pill, no easy solution that lets us be our best selves comfortably and without risk. Besides, a professional archer can’t be caught using performance enhancement drugs. Like them, you must learn to shoot from the heart and not despite it.



In a coffee shop in the Middle of Nowhere, Brooklyn, I am listening to Capricorn Aquarian cusp Chan Marshall sing Metal Heart on the Late Show with David Letterman. Somewhere between performance art and public unraveling, Chan’s body slips in and out of rhythm, in and out of itself. She holds the microphone like it pains her to bring it near her mouth.

I want to think about what Cat Power’s, or any Capricorn’s, metal heart feels like. What compels a metal heart to ache? Does it clang painfully when you beat your chest in atonement? Does it feel like a burden? Chan Marshall wrote this song from out of a nightmare, an earthquake. The earth started shaking, and dark spirits were smashing up against every window of my house … I had a tape recorder with me so that if they found my body, they’d know my soul was taken. They’d have proof. What was I going to say to people? I didn’t know, so I started singing all these songs.

Capricorn. This new moon, I want you to imagine your metal heart like a canteen you carry with you across long dry distances, sipping from slowly and with wise restraint. Your metal heart is not extra weight, not too hard to hold. It will get you through this dark winter road and to the other side.










December Galactic Rabbit, The End of 2015

Dearest December Bunnies,

I hope that these love notes find you well, that you are warm tonight and only a little tired. The kind of tired that comes from spending the day doing what you love, being of good use, being a good friend, or redefining goodness altogether. And, if you are not tired but weary, if you are in bed right now wondering if you have wasted your life, my heart. If you feel the core of you push up against whatever you thought goodness was and feel nothing, next to nothing, keep pushing anyway. Just so you don’t forget the gestures. This is how we learn to return to ourselves.

When I was a teenage girl who loved another teenage girl, she would tell me often that there is nothing lost in this world. I try to remember that when I think of the people I love who no longer walk on this side of the veil, I try to remember that when my shoes get heavy with the grief of this country.


Once there was a hedgehog and he lost his jam, a wild dog brought it back to him. Once there was a hedgehog lost in a thick white fog, a voice said “Trust me, I will carry you down the river where the juniper twigs burn and your best friend is waiting for you.” Once there was a hedgehog who found his way back to his twinheart. His twinheart shouted “What has taken you so long? Who would I count stars with if not you?”


With Perfect Trust,

Galactic Rabbit


P.S. Thank you to every single dyke, queer, lone wolf who has taught me how to love this hard.

P.P.S. If ever you want to support these horoscopes, you can paypal me donations! A little bit is still some sugar. Pay Pal


Savanah Banana the dog, covered in rabbit light




In her poem, “On Old Ideas,” Dorothea Lasky (Aries) writes: There are old plans now that should be new. / There are old thoughts in your head, my reader, and let them die. / Follow me, I am the crusader of the new.

It’s hard to build a new dream, even harder to pursue one, what with the tricky nature of dreams—how they wear the Cloak of the Almost Impossible, how they lie just beyond the Mountain of Great Challenges. But, Aries, is there really any mountain high enough to keep you from moving toward your deepest desires? You are the Fool and the Emperor. You have it in you to dream a better world into being then command the making of that world. Follow me, you cry as you move courageously forward, I am the crusader of the new.

Now that this year is closing, take time to look at the path you’ve blazed to get this far. If there have been sacrifices, if there has been love lost, then honor whatever you’ve let go so that you might go on. Sometimes having a child’s heart means holding a love so pure it is barely meant for this world. Sometimes being a great warrior means losing with grace, with gratitude for what that loss has taught you.



I’ve been reading Marie Kondo’s Life-changing Magic of Tidying Up, and thinking about you, how much an object of good quality can move you, that golden turtle you never bought, each G-dragon music video, the perfect curtains. And, I’ve been thinking about the people in your life. How I hope they feel lucky, like I do, because your love is generous and forgiving, because your love is a room full of people trying their best to be their truest selves.

“Every object has a different role to play. Not all clothes have come to you to be worn threadbare. It is the same with people. Not every person you meet in life will become a close friend or lover,” Marie writes. “Some you will find hard to get along with or impossible to like. But these people, too, teach you the precious lesson of who you do like, so that you will appreciate those special people even more.”

Taurus, as your year comes to a close, imagine what it might mean to tidy up your emotional life. Let go of what makes you feel less than you are, make time for the ones that give you sparks of joy, the ones who see you. There are few better feelings in this world than being seen and you, my love, deserve to feel very very good.



A couple years ago, I met a Gemini witch, a poetess. Diane Seuss. She had ink black hair and a generous eye. Under her mischievous gaze, my words rose up from the page and re-arranged themselves. Lines spread their legs across large white space; whole lyric sections kissed passionately and broke up so that they might stand more powerfully on their own. In understanding my language, she spoke a love I could understand. We breakfast covened over avocado sandwiches and poached eggs, and it seemed like she deeply cared for every single woman at the table—even the ones whose names she barely knew. Come visit me anytime, she said, showing us pictures of an animal more fur than dog that would welcome us as well.

In a poem called “Song of My Heart,” she writes her first line: If there’s pee on the seat it’s my pee.

I think about this poem all the time, about the way it approaches solitude like a conquest. Yes, this is my kingdom, my body and all I own—it’s glory and squalor.

Gemini, how do you approach your solitude? Do you fortify with empathic friendships? When you drag your body to the edge of a dark wood, do you want for company, for companions who carry the light with you? Then call your friends and lovers by their true names, Gemini, illuminate their strengths and let them strengthen you in turn.



There’s an old Russian song my father used to sing to himself. I get it stuck in my head sometimes when I think of him. It begins simple enough: You are my breath, / my early morning, / you’re the scorching sun / and rain. But then, it turns: I will torture myself / and become the very best, / for this very reason you / should stick around.

It’s a beautiful song, written by an Aquarius named Ada Yakusheva in what must have been the 60’s (although dates are unclear). Despite the Aquarian source, I can’t help but think of you, Cancer, when I hear this song. There’s something so determined about it, so clear-hearted and sure. For the one you love, for the community you have built, for your family, you will burn down the house of yourself and build a castle in its place.

On the 25th of this month, when the moon is full in Cancer and your heart is full with everything that you know to be true about yourself, your resilience, imagine that this is a song Ada wrote for herself, rather than for a lover she hoped would love her. Imagine this is song to your health, your incredible body, and your magnificent mind. Ты моя мелодия, ты – вроде ты и вроде я. Мой маяк у вечности на краю. You are my melody/ You are you but you’re also me/ my lighthouse at the edge of eternity.



When I was in grade school, I was in love with a collection of poems by Maya Angelou. I read them everyday, I stole the book from my library. I was mesmerized by the clarity of her voice, by the mere suggestion that a woman could dance like she had diamonds between her thighs.

Despite my attachment to the poetic image, to the first words she entered into my poetic memory, the words I carry with me to this day are not from any of her poems. They come, instead, from an interview with Oprah. Oprah looks to Maya, prompting her, “…one of the most important lessons I ever learned from you…when people show you who they are, believe them.”

Sometimes it’s hard for a Leo to follow this advice, no matter how simple it sounds. You want to believe the best in everyone, to push them forward, to raise them up. It might be useful to remember that in a pride, the weakest are sometimes left behind for the sake of the strong. Sweet lion, I’m not suggesting you abandon those you love. Rather, I’m encouraging you to take note of those you spend time holding up, tending to, and carrying through. Don’t let your care for others be an excuse that keeps you from thriving.



Recently, Pen America featured an illustrated blog post by cartoonist Robert Kirby. In the “The Virgo Thing,” Kirby explores the different ways Virgos are characterized and which descriptions resonate with him personally. After claiming the idea that Virgo’s motto is “I Analyze,” Kirby writes, “It’s much easier, however, to examine aesthetics than it is to examine emotions.”

But, what does it mean to examine aesthetics? Should you shift into the hedonistic pleasure of language and all its abstractions, read more Barthes, buy a fall jacket come January just for the faux fur trim? Maybe. Would that be so wrong? Don’t you think you deserve something lovely for no reason at all? Don’t you think you’ve worked hard to get where you are?

It’s easy, isn’t it Virgo, to imagine oneself constantly at the bottom of the wheel—running in place and looking ever forward. But the truth is, these past few months have been kind to you, given you space to grow and flourish, to imagine all the different ways you can embody your very best self. That kind of loving attention from the universe has the power to teach you a great deal about emotional strength—how to see it in yourself and inspire it in others. Look out to the generous world, Virgo, acknowledge that love comes.



We’re in a bookstore called unnamable books and you say you want more poetry in your life so I shove Claudia Rankine’s Don’t Let Me Be Lonely in your hands. I flip it open to my favorite page, say this one:

“Forgiveness, I finally decide, is not the death of amnesia, nor is it a form of madness, as Derrida claims. For the one who forgives, it is simply a death, a dying down in the heart, the position of the already dead. It is in the end the living through, the understanding that this has happened, is happening, happens. Period. It is a feeling of nothingness that cannot be communicated to another, an absence, a bottomless vacancy held by the living, beyond all that is hated or loved.”

I don’t agree, you remark, but you hold the book reverently with both hands and continue on. Then, as if compelled by a saint that lives inside you (a saint the way Libra Hannah Arendt might have been—imperfect, trying), you looked up at me and say calmly I love forgiveness, it’s important to forgive as much as you can. We go down the rows, fiction, non-fiction, we stand on opposite sides of each book. You say Maybe I have different concerns then you… I wonder what you think of me. We leave the store with Don’t Let Me Be Lonely in your bag.

I think you’re a subtle magician, a beautiful wool coat trying to weather the longest winter, a love dog running toward forgiveness. And forgiveness is yours, like this life is yours, you can do with it what you wish.



Once, there lived a poet called Eli Coppola, who was a Queen of Hearts and Ace of Swords. I did not know her. Her poetry came to me like a raft floating down a river of tears. I’d stumbled into Bluestockings Bookstore on the LES with my best friend the same day her friends gathered to celebrate the publication of her collected work Some Angels Wear Black, to read her words, and honor her passing. The love she had inspired in each person flowed through the room and forever changed the both of us.

There is a poem in her posthumous collection called “Casual Hands, Brutal Stars, Past Things.” In it, the narrator is on a kind of date with Death (perhaps something like Emily Dickinson’s “Because I could not stop…”).

and he recalls each time past / that I called something love / and he questions me about these things / and he wants to know / and he says / you know / darkness comes and goes

and I hold his hand tighter and crying happens / and it’s just crying / and my ribcage rattles / and my throat swells like the bullfrog/ and I feel a savage, unsettling peace

Scorpio, this month, with Venus in your sight, recall each time past that you called something love. Let the meditation be a pomegranate in your hand, tap the sides, use a sharp knife, be precise and be delicate. Each sweet ruby seed has a bitter core, honor the whole. Remember the way you have beheld each lover this generously. Isn’t it time you did the same for yourself?



It took me a long time to understand simple facts about Earth, mainly because I live in the clouds and I went to a very underfunded public school as a child. Like, did you know that the Sun is closest to the Earth in January? That it’s the angle at which the rays hit our planet that determine how much energy/heat comes to us? Here I was walking around the blustery boulevards lamenting o remember when the sun was close? Just as the Sun was nearest!

I’ve been thinking about nearness a great deal lately. How it’s easy to overlook that which sustains us. How Sagittarians are fire despite being so human and so animal. The nights get longer, loved ones gather around the hearth, and there you are keeping the tinder burning.

Sagittarius, this was the year you did everything you could to protect what mattered most. Even if what mattered most moved you father and farther from what felt like your truest self. And, perhaps your journey was lighter. Perhaps in leaving the woman you believed you were behind, you found the woman you were meant to be. More likely, there are parts of you that survived, parts that have been waiting to come back and make a dreamer out of you.

Can you feel her returning to you? The girl you used to believe in, the one with a heart as quick and precise as an arrow? You are her first mark and she’s not gonna miss, so you might as well give her everything she wants.



In someone’s re-occurring dream, you enter the chamber of a dark heart holding a hand over your eye. I can’t see with both eyes, you say, I wake into a throbbing pain, an incurable condition. You are standing, but barely, because you are afraid and your body wants to curl towards its warmest folds. You let it. Someone wants to hold you up or carry you to a soft space. They try but they can’t. Their arms aren’t strong enough, they’re not strong enough, and besides—where would you go? You acknowledge that they tried; you’re generous in your suffering. It’s so cold in the dream, a barren corridor, and someone has to leave you. Someone leaves you over and over in every dream and they are sorry.

If there is a dagger in your witch heart, Capricorn, you can blame the dreamer but you’ve got to pull it out. If there is a wound where the dagger once was, go ahead and dress the wound. This is about learning how to see with whatever eyes you’ve got left. Healer, prophet, someone’s mother. This is about teaching yourself—as if for the first time—how to care for the one who depends on you most—yourself.



Aquarius, somewhere in the parallel universe, there are three women walking along the Atlantic ocean. The worlds these women come from, the ones they left behind so that they might meet, are light-years apart. Of course, they have shared interests, one picks up the perfect skipping stone and the other bounces it along the waters surface.

How can the ocean be so still? They don’t know. They find shells that sea creatures have suctioned onto granite. A whole family lives here, a shell hotel. They try their best to respect creatures they can barely see. In this way, they wind a thread around their hearts, from each to each, and tug each other softly along the shore.

If there is raptor’s nest, they’ve spotted it, thatched atop a defunct lighthouse. If the sun is setting, they have turned their faces to the sun and become gold. If this world is full of too many sorrows, too many small wounds against your soul, remember: there is no kind of love that is impossible. Sometimes, remembering that is the best you can do, and the bravest too.



I remember how terrified I was to get up on the stage. I could barely see the faces in the crowd, shrouded in darkness. A song I had been singing to myself all summer long came on… I’ve been lonely, I’ve been waitin’ for you. I’m pretending and that’s all I can do. The love I’m sendin’ ain’t makin’ it through to your heart… I began to undress for the room, for a girl I was a long time ago. A girl who felt more powerful naked than she ever did with her clothes on.

Then there you were, crawling out from under the stage lights and toward me with money in your mouth. There were two girls following you, but I knew you were the ringleader. You were the one who traded femme desire for femme desire, female gaze so warm it could melt any heart of ice.

Oh Pisces, aren’t you the one whose sweetness is oceans deep, who loves someone once and forever no matter when cities, states, bad words separate you? Don’t you know that refusing to see what others want to offer you is a bad spell? You keep taking deep breaths and hustling survival but wouldn’t it be nice to feel sure of something in this world, wouldn’t it be nice to be fall passionately, to let yourself receive? If there is girl moving toward you with an offering, you should let her.







Dear Octo-bunnies,

Here are my love letters for you this month. For weeks I have sat before the facts, the planets and transitions, the rogue comets and fierce planetoids. I’ve taken your phone calls and cupped your questions in my palms. I’ve loved you, each and every one, intimately and from a distance.

The year gets darker, the night gets longer and, for many of us, depression lingers at the edges. But, we have learned how to be our own light when the day is not enough. Or we are still learning, or we are lost and wandering dark streets like a foreigner in the city of ourselves. Don’t be afraid and don’t get angry with yourself.

Let the long night, the shadow journey, be a kind of solace. Your time alone, your time to manifest. What comes to you might not be within your control but it is within your power. And, if you find yourself needing to recharge, lie down for a while and count each star above you as your friend.


Galactic Rabbit

P.S. THANK YOU CLAIRE SKINNER (She’s amazing, she’s a poet <3)

P.P.S OMG you should totally donate to helping me write Galactic Rabbit if you can! Because it saves me every time. PayPal!

Shout out to Kim Menig, Sarah Morrill, Elizabeth Kennon Williams, and Abby Cooper for their big generous loving gifts (amongst beautiful wonderful others)!



On a celestial dance floor where the mind and the heart keep forgetting how to move together, you are the one whispering one two three, one two three. Every now and again they fall in step gorgeously, but they fall out of step too, and just as easily. You are the one guiding them back to a mutual rhythm so you must speak steady and be sure. But, what if you’re not sure? What if there are days when no amount of clear communication and processing will do? What if it’s the wrong song, a clumsy night? I mean, what if there are nights when the mind and the heart just can’t seem to make it work?

In The Waves, Virginia Woolf writes: Let us again pretend that life is a solid substance, shaped like a globe, which we turn about in our fingers. Let us pretend that we can make out a plain and logical story, so that when one matter is despatched—love for instance—we go on, in an orderly manner, to the next.

There is pleasure in pretending but there is a price too, Aquarius. Pretend long enough and you forget that the heart and mind live in one body, yours, and are always touching always signaling, always flagging what it is they’re looking for. You are the voice and the dance floor. If your heart hesitates, if your mind just can’t find a reason to keep dancing, perhaps the best thing to do is change the song.



Lie back, Pisces. Are your feet apart? Are your palms up? Collect energy and rock your head. Air enters and leaves you, in with faith, out with fear. Each limb, each digit, a point of connection. In some universe, a loved one is touching the tip of you. Are you worthy of their touch? Are they worthy of you? It’s ok if you don’t know the answer is yes. Or what you are worth. Your body floating in a river outside time, river of loss and river of regret, but you’re right here breathing. Where do you need extra healing? Where do you collect your pain?

I keep thinking of fire, the image of hands rubbing together, the sound of finger print skin on palms, the feel of fat, blood, and bone within.  I find myself in the center of looking into shapes that surround me.  I attempt to make patterns, layering one into the next, often with such questions: How to participate, to point, to pull back, to listen? Where do I fit in between these tables: eater, poet, judge, hungry person, floater?*

Float, river of glittering laughter and river of soft kisses, where do you keep all your pleasures? Practice un-naming each wound and letting them go. Let go over and over again. Relax your ego and soften the heart. Long ago, you vowed to heal yourself, now move outward. Everyone you have yet to love is at the tip of you. Mirror the heavens, Pisces, and rise generous into the world.




Aren’t you the one who moved across the country with barely enough money to fill your pockets and only the idea of what freedom might look like? Aren’t you the one who wrote stories deep into the night and danced until daybreak imagining a new future, a new world full of bodies pulsing beautiful rebellion? Maybe it was easier, then, to invent the world you wanted and believe in yourself enough to make that world become. Perhaps life has been a little too strict with your young heart and asked you to prove your courage a few too many times. And maybe you are done with proving anything and angry at a world that refuses to see the work you’ve done to get this far.

In her poem “she said, meditate on rage,” Akilah Oliver writes: i am inventing. i am inventing. i am inventing a woman who i can let live in beauty inside of me. i am forsaking. i forsake myself. the scarred scared bitch who answers to my name is just too hard to hear.

Is your disappointment holding you back, Aries? Is it shifting how you see yourself and your possibilities? You invented yourself once: that lover whose whole life is a journey back toward tenderness. Tenderness as a practice in letting go when what you’re holding holds you down, tenderness like a knife at a dying deer’s throat. You’re strong enough to do it again and better, bigger, this time.



There are close to 20,000 trees in Central Park. Black Cherry, Cedar and Magnolia, Birch and Black Tupelo. I know this because I looked it up. Walking beside you, under the blazing foliage, I can only call them beautiful and dying. You are like me, a city girl, and you’re still chain smoking like you did when we were fourteen and had fire red hair like this tree…. and that tree too. Years ago, on a fall walk like this one, we perched on surface roots and planned our futures. I was the selfish one, running toward whatever felt good. You bent your branches toward sacrifice “If I do this, then I can give my sister this, I can give my mother this.” And you moved toward math and marriage and money but yours was a wild heart too, an artist’s heart and it was never far behind you.

In her lyric essay “Notes from and on a Landscape: Hell, Fire, and Brimstone,” Elizabeth Willis writes:

At what cost do we separate thought from feeling?/ / What acts of will and imagination remain in the uncombed weeds of the past, beyond the histories we have been conditioned to repeat?

In the story of our lives, the narrator doesn’t have to be reliable, doesn’t have to make good on every past promise. Even if you love the work you do, even if you are good at it and are rewarded, it doesn’t have to be everything you are.  The world you chose for yourself yesterday does not have to be the world you give your whole self to.



Remember when you came over and we read poem after poem to each other? I had seen you around, had noticed your undeniable beauty and the way you always found a way to touch me, but I was careful. I was careful because you held your brightness back and I was desperate for a girl with light to spare. Still, in my small kitchen, over childhood photographs and a little bit of liquor, I was charmed by the truth-teller in you. You were a prince bearing her wounds matter-of-factly, without artifice or need, and it moved me toward you. It was not your sadness I admired, it was your ability to face that sadness head on.

In an interview with TIME, Jamaica Kincaid said: One doesn’t have to pursue unhappiness. It comes to you. You come into the world screaming. You cry when you’re born because your lungs expand. You breathe. I think that’s really kind of significant. You come into the world crying, and it’s a sign that you’re alive

If you have found yourself without words these days, Gemini, or if you have felt the weight of your own sadness like a stone in the mouth, hold on. Sometimes the words won’t come out right and what you say is nowhere close to what you mean. You’re one way then you’re another. Pursue happiness instead of being “one way.” Take time for yourself, write yourself a love song, a love song for your spirit, for your health.



Remember years ago, around this time of year, when we stayed at your family farm? The days were bright with harvest and we lolled in the green grass unafraid of ticks. I want to remember more about that weekend, what kind of friend I was to you, what we talked about deep into the brisk farmhouse nights. Instead I recall two moments precisely. One: I tried to herd the sheep without you and they moved toward me terrifying like a black cloud. Two: My then-lover was living nearby and I met her outside under a full moon (yes I remember it was full). She was a cancer too, a cancer who broke my heart simply by being who she was. But who was I? I pressed the ring she gave me back in her hand.

In her essay “By Way of Booze and Broccoli,” Stephanie K Hopkins writes: It’s not in the ability to lift heavy objects or hold my drink or suck a man bone dry where I find my strength; it’s in the soft lens of recognition, in the turning toward my own fumbling self and softening, not trying to hide her. And it’s in the fluidity of self, the being able to let go of what holds us back, like myths, like what we thought was magic but was really accident, and continue to rewrite ourselves.

I’m thinking about that weekend now because in so many ways you have seen me move through heartbreak, a kind witness. Now you must become a witness to your own heart, no matter how painful that is, no matter how many truths rush toward you like an angry herd of sheep! Feel yourself moving through different kinds of heartbreak as you touch the edges of yourself, who you once believed you were and who you are capable of becoming.



“Love takes off the masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.” I have read this James Baldwin quote from The Fire Next Time often, the words running over his pensive face in a poster or packed ornately into a pink scalloped frame. They slip into progressive Valentine’s Day cards and sweet wedding pamphlets. They compel us towards a kind of profundity, a way of understanding the vows we make to each other. Rarely have I seen the quote reposted with the words that follow that first line:

I use the word “love” here not merely in the personal sense but as a state of being, or a state of grace – not in the infantile American sense of being made happy but in the tough and universal sense of quest and daring and growth.

Perhaps it is easier for us to imagine that love (at it’s simplest, at it’s most visible) can do it all for us, or that the passion in our hearts—our desire to be good or good at—is enough to move us toward a kind of redemption. What if we have no idea what love is (let alone who or what we are) and everything we have named it thus far has only been lip service to the god of it? What would your path toward grace look like then, Leo? What masks are you willing to take off so that you might see it?



Recently, Mary Oliver—blessed Virgo poet of learning self-love—revealed a new poem coming. The lines she offered? I have refused to live/ locked in the orderly house of/ reasons and proofs.

The poem is called “Felicity,” and I am thinking of what felicity might mean for you in this celestial moment, when so many planets come to you with their blessings. What if the house you refuse to live in is the one you built and in building, loved? Yes reason, yes proof, yes order you thought you wanted all those things. You set your own rules, your own laws for the kind of person you had to be and who that person had a right to love.

When love comes and, true to its nature, it is not at all what you are expecting, what would it take for you to leave that house behind? Who will be without it? Here is your body, your handful of stars under the night sky, here is the world you wanted—offering itself over and over again. To realize yourself limitless, you have to leave the house that locked you up behind, even if you love it, even if it’s yours.



In her beautiful poem “Salt is For Curing,” Sonya Vatomsky writes: I don’t / feel / haunted. Exactly. More like a spice jar that’s holding / more inside than volume would suggest possible. My / little tin lid fits snug but the pressure is really something.

So I’m thinking about the spice of life and the chance that such a spice might be sorrow. So what? So what if it’s sorrow? A jar you carry with you and—you can’t help it, cupped in your hand—it changes everything you touch. Stop me if my Russian flavor is a little out of hand but here’s something the cookbooks don’t tell you: sorrow doesn’t stop you from falling in love, it doesn’t stop you from being a mad genius or knightly girl. Sorrow belongs to you, a survival tool like a canteen of water or a sword you cast through the brush.

What if you open the jar and let the pressure out? What if everything you have and everything that’s coming is yours because you have learned how to eat your way through sorrow? A spice exposed to the world slowly loses potency and after a while you can barely make out the taste.



With the lunar eclipse, we experienced conditional darkness. Darkness like a trick, a slight of hand. If the Sun casts light on the Earth and the earth gives the moon it’s red shadow, a refraction, who is the woman standing in the mirror? There is no math in magic, no solve for X in terms of Y. One body feels unbearably heavy with memory; one looks up and sees themself small in the universe. Neither one is a liar. Scorpio, it might surprise you to find that the truth lying flat no longer concerns you. You want a truth that knows how to move, how to lay down with a lover and wake up alone without sacrificing the whole of herself. Penumbra, what is obscured and still remains, indelible planet.

“The day’s blow / rang out, metallic–or it was I, a bell awakened, / and what I heard was my whole self / saying and singing what it knew: I can.” –Denis Levertov

You can, Scorpio, you can live as both darkness and light. You can move toward love even at your most vulnerable, you can bet on yourself each time—even if the stakes are high. You knew too much, grew old too soon, now knowledge is just one way to read a map that’s always changing. Moving forward must be an act of courage, of ambition.

It’s doesn’t matter where you start. Where luck is an illusion and hard work a love letter to the firebird within you, try harder. When you lose, lose again and harder.



One night, in a bar at the edge of town, we were talking about that one guy, you know the one, who introduced you to his wife as the girl who “wears a lot of turquoise.” We marveled at the implication, the obvious social slight. In a perfect world, I would have remembered to tell you that turquoise was a stone worn by soldiers on horseback, an amulet that protected them from falling. That it was a perfect charm for your journey.

It would have been good, then, to explore the ways in which we intuitively make ourselves more powerful. To witness our preferences in companion, work, play and, yes, even adornment as choices we have made for the betterment of ourselves.

In her essay “On Self-Respect,” Joan Didion writes: The tricks that work on others count for nothing in that well-lit back alley where one keeps assignations with oneself; no winning smiles will do here, no prettily drawn lists of good intentions. One shuffles flashily but in vain through ones’ marked cards the kindness done for the wrong reason, the apparent triumph which involved no real effort, the seemingly heroic act into which one had been shamed. The dismal fact is that self-respect has nothing to do with the approval of others.

Sagittarius, if you have found yourself lacking strength this month. If you have, in a sense, exhausted your social graces in an effort to be invited to the table, stop looking outward. Tell me who you are again, what you want to do in this world, show me all the tools you carry with you—in you—that are more than enough to see you through.



In interview up at Jezebel, writer Sandra Cisneros was asked “When and why have you felt most at home in your body and in your home, are they one in the same, do they rarely overlap, do they always overlap?” To which she replied, in part, “You must feel safe in your physical space. You have to have a state of safety and peace, safety from intrusion. You have to carve out private time to be your own confidant. This helps you see the beauty around you…”

I’ve been wondering about safety as a negotiation, that moment when you say I feel ugly inside this conversation- I feel unseen and untended to and the person you’re speaking to actually hears you over the voice in their own head. Safe like a space where you keep what’s valuable locked up inside yourself and every time you copy the key for someone else, every time you allow yourself to be vulnerable, you want reciprocity—respect.

Wanting that kind of safety, wanting not a warm blanket and a lover but to be loved through and within weakness, is knowing that safety is a house made out of intentions—a house we try to live in until it proves unlivable. Each time a wreckage, each time a re-imagining of shelter. Capricorn, no one can make you safe, not even you. Safety is hinged on a controlled set of outcomes and life has taught you more than once that nothing is for sure. So there must be another way to experience beauty, another reason to do what we do: love, create, go on.




Dear Autumnal Rabbits,

It’s hard to say goodbye to summer, to days when lying still under the hot sun can count as an activity. It’s hard to find time for ourselves, for stillness, for thinking about each and every little part of our bodies so that we might send it love. I love you fingertip, I love you tiny toe. It’s harder still, to cater to such small concerns when faced with the enormity of this world and it’s failure to care for the people in it.

Someone has, once again, reposted the photo of a Syrian child washed up dead on the shore. An interview with his father reveals a second son and a wife lost to the ocean. You look. You repeat their names in your mind, under your breath. You think about the bodies; were these bodies that you could have loved? I love you fingertip, I love you tiny toe. You can’t bear any more looking.

Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement in the Jewish calendar, is September 23. Forty-two years ago, Syria and Israel were at war. Now Israel has the chance to practice forgiveness. This month, when I light a candle for my dead, I will count a country of strangers among them. I will remember every time I have not been brave enough to forgive, not compassionate enough to be generous in the face of scarcity.

A tiny drop in an ocean of nations, I will vow to be better. What if you joined me?

xo G

P.S. Thank you, Claire Skinner, for all your help. <3
P.P.S. If you’d like to donate to the making of these horoscopes, there’s a PayPal link located on the sidebar of the site. I appreciate you and adore you.




Here we are on earth, you wrote, terra / my name / your name / all that cannot.

I am thinking about all that cannot today. About what it means to live on this planet with it’s endless war and factory line. It’s 40% off at the Banana Republic. I am thinking about what it means to be complicit in our own suffering and how that suffering rises to a pitch so high only bats can hear it.

This month, Germany opened its arms and took in thousands upon thousands of Syrian refugees. A big move for a small country but Germany, for reasons mostly rooted in historical ignorance, has taken on almost the entirety of blame for the Holocaust. While I cannot speak to the inner working of national leaders, I dare say that in doing so Germany has shifted its image in the world.

There are many ways to change, Aquarius, many ways to shift how the world sees you. How do you suffer? What ghosts and worldly wounds have you taken on as your own? To become lighter, you can’t be afraid to give more of yourself.



In the beginning of this month, under the full Pisces moon, I gathered with a few sweet friends by the beach. What I love about the night ocean, what I look for in most things I love, is the moment when darkness is a lens that unifies what lies separate. What I mean is the sky and the moon and the water, all one. What I mean is you, Pisces, and the moon you are: wound, healer, and the keeper of precious things.

The water crests and crashes over itself, slapping the rocks and sucking at the shore. The lunar light is brilliant and white like a hole in the universe.

What is made there, what is birthed and destroyed beneath the water’s cloak, is what lives in us. Feminine divine. Uncountable stories. In some parallel universe, you know them all by heart. In this one, they come to you, in dreams and in heartbreak. In the sparkling night, we’d come to honor your power, to charge our crystals and stones beneath you. I held a rock quartz to my third eye and felt an immense clarity, an opening that vibrated deep into my bones. I knew this was your gift and I felt you with me. You have come so far; you’re stronger than you’ve ever been.



“Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

Aries, when I remembered The Velveteen Rabbit—written by a Cancer, I thought of you. I thought of you because the Lunar Eclipse will fall in Aries (Decan 1) this late September, and because Cancer is the star in the sky that understands your drive and devotion more than most. I thought of your young heart and how the world betrays it.

I want to tell you about how much I loved The Velveteen Rabbit as a child new to this country, how it made me feel optimistic about being accepted and loved. I desperately wanted to become “real,” whatever that was. I wish someone could have told me that we are always real. That there is no amount of love or ruining that can deem us worthy of each other. As far as reality goes, we can be wild rabbits in a field or stuffed horses with missing parts. It doesn’t matter. We are in this book, this room, together. We are for each other, beautiful and real, even in our separateness.



Once my friend L called me out of nowhere. We hadn’t spoken in what felt like years. GALI! She exclaimed over the phone, I have some questions for you. L had just begun a graduate program in mathematics. She was one of the few women admitted and the isolation of her experience had catapulted her into re-thinking her identification with feminism. What L wanted to know was: could she be a feminist and still prepare dinner for her husband?

Such an absurd question came out of her desire to make things black and white, this or that. It didn’t matter that the question was absurd, or that she left her husband shortly after our phone call, moved across the country and began to date women exclusively.

What mattered (then and still) is the way life has a way of teaching you over and over that if you are stuck in a quandary (career path, relationship, friendship, etc.) and looking for an easy answer—you are probably searching for the way out. Which is, in many ways, the easiest answer of them all.



I have known two kinds of Gemini, the kind whose every love was their Big Great Love, and the kind who wandered from lover to lover indifferently casting their affections. Even as I write this I know that each of these Gemini was one half of the other. Still, I remember my friend J, whose journal spilled out with crosshatch sketches of every boy she kissed. And, I remember S, who never talked about desire, who to this day rises up in photographs alone and beautiful on tropical beaches.

When the moon sails out / the waters cover the earth / and the heart feels it is / a little island in the infinite*

Today, I am thinking of this Gemini dichotomy, the great lover in you and the butterfly flitting from flower to flower. I want to ask each of those twins how they thrive. How do you, Gemini, make space for the one who wants in you? The one who is curious about everything in the world? Where do you rest, winged one, when all the flowers fall asleep? This month, imagine the little island in the infinite that is your heart, let it be home to both Gemini in you.

*Federico Garcia Lorca



On car rides to Mount St. Helens, over Dar Williams cds, we would hash out the meaning of feminine and masculine, human and animal, Christians and Pagans, non-violence and self-defense. We would talk over one another, interrupt, reach for answers where there were clearly none to be found. We didn’t care. If my girlfriend was in the car with us, she would come to me later and say, “All you two do is fight. Doesn’t it exhaust you?” No, I would tell her, quite the opposite. Our arguing invigorated us, made us respect each other, made us close.

It also made us sensitive to one another. Perhaps that’s why when my girlfriend and I broke up, you were the first person I thought of. I needed your expansive mind, your strong logic to guide me toward every truth I had forgotten about myself.

My sweet friend, my partner in feminist praxis, who is asking you the tough questions now that we live so far apart? The ruby of your great mind is in full effect, do you feel as if you’ve honored its capacity? Don’t be afraid to go it alone, Cancer, to figure it out for yourself. Be brave. The people who love you cast a wide net and they’ll be there to catch you if you fall. But, dear heart, I know that you won’t.



On your back on a rooftop in Brooklyn, under a night sky that is not without stars, you can feel the world pulse on. Cars honk and skyscrapers blink. There is the faint sound of music. You pulse too but it’s a soft pulse. A sad song, I hear it, have heard it for months. What balm could you rub on that strong chest of yours? What more can you do than what you’ve done? For years you’ve built a damn around your heart but life rivers through, erodes the land. That’s the nature of rivers. Your heart aches but it won’t break. Hearts are unfathomable in their fortitude. No matter their weight, their darkness, their hard jacket with the collar turned up, they go on.

You have been dead a long season / And have less than desire / Who were lover with lover; / And I have life—that old reason / To wait for what comes, / To leave what is over. * 

Life—that old reason. It’s not shallow, not a small feat, to look at the person you’ve become and take her hand. I want to give you something powerful: a crown of black onyx and rose quartz, a tea to soothe your beautiful lion heart. I wish that it were possible to know just the right thing, but there is no right thing. Do whatever you need to do to live in this world, to leave what is over and begin again.

*Louise Bogan



The Solar eclipse and the sun in your eyes, dear Virgo, may the Earth be good to you. May you eat the seeds of this world, and the next, and not be held responsible for your hunger. Let yourself know desire, let your shame become the ripe fig you tongue at the edge of your longing.

This is your beautiful everything, your thick elastic flesh molded from the shapes of ancestors, survivors, lovers who dug their nails in deep and refused to let go. Or, was it you who held on too long? It doesn’t matter…

Dear Virgo, may this month be the month of clear sight, a chance to see yourself as you have been and as you are now without regret. If there is a world out there you have held yourself back from, consider yourself welcome to it. If you have convinced yourself that love must prove itself to you before you can know what it is, consider that you are already full of knowing. Autumn beckons, the garden is thick with offerings.



Libra you, more than anyone, know a pattern when you see it. Surely, you might have guessed by now that the frequency of Mercury’s slip into retrograde has a greater purpose than messing up our emails and delaying our flights. We can’t blame a planet for our bad habits, our tardiness and our inclination to hit send too fast. We can, however, feel some kind of way about Mercury’s insistence on forcing us to confront them.

Mercury asks us to back up our hard-drives because that is an act of care we can perform for what we produce in the world. Mercury is here to teach us about listening before we speak, thinking before we act, and knowing what we want before we say yes. It forces us to take a good hard look at the obstacles we construct to get in our own ways and asks us if we are ready to dismantle them.

Well, Libra, are you ready to dismantle them? If the answer is yes, if you know what you want, then don’t be afraid of which way the planets move. Remember that you are your strongest astral influence and the universe aches to harmonize with you.



It’s no coincidence that poetry’s sad darlings, Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton, were both Scorpios. Who else could have courted death so famously? Who else could have been so brilliant in their darkness, captured the topaz light of a dying leaf so precisely that their genius would appear almost effortless? Two night dancers defying the gravity of language, the ghosts of Sylvia and Anne have often suffered a woman’s death—where their craft takes a seat behind their surrender.

And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes / Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me. / The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea, / And comes from a country far away as health.

Beyond bank statements and painful conversations, beyond the anxieties of getting from one day to the next, there is a world where you are very very powerful. Scorpio, forget psychic death, forgo any form of surrender that does not yield pleasure. Let health become a country where you claim citizenship, move there. No matter how estranged, no matter that you’ve forgotten the language and the customs. Start small and soon you will remember.



In the years when my grief was deepest, when the hours between getting home and waking up ached on and on with slow hands, you were my lighthouse. Maybe it’s because you were stationed between my home and the rest of the world, maybe because I was only willing to bicycle as far as your front door, I demanded your company. And you were good to me. You welcomed me in even when you were tired; you brought out a bottle of whiskey and let me live at its bottom.

I don’t mean to suggest that I knew you then, or that I know you now. I have, little by little, figured out that there is little merit in claiming that we ever truly know anyone.

Archer, I sensed the lone animal in you, the warm live thing at the center of your solitude. I sensed and moved toward it. What contained that animal, what contained you and kept you from relief, I could only guess at. I loved you indiscriminately. Loved the good in you. How big that good was and is, like an animal’s heart beating hot under all her fur.



I know a man who is an alcoholic. He’s not a bad man, or he wasn’t, although who can say who is born bad and who becomes? This man, he has a mother. Everyday his mother wakes early in the morning and begins the arduous task of baking specialty cakes for her son’s restaurant. Everyday her son moves through the day toward his next drink. The restaurant gapes empty and the man’s wife keeps surfacing with bruises.

The mother’s heart breaks over and over. The mother can’t bear to see her son so broken; she can’t bear to witness his cruelty and his weakness. She bakes cake not knowing whether her son will pick it up or not. Not knowing if he will leave the cake in his car while he drunkenly lumbers in a haze until dawn.

What she can’t seem to put together is the way the cake is both a bribe and a form of permission. That, in preparing these cakes everyday, she is trying to establish a pattern in a world that is falling apart, to manipulate a return to normalcy. How have you, Capricorn, created relationships where your labors are lost? How have you, Capricorn, maneuvered to control what is outside your power?

August Offering!

Dear August Love Bunnies,

I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I have, in many ways, been waiting myself. For inspiration to arrive, for the right words to come to me so that I might give them to you. But, as it turns out, there is no such thing as the perfect time or the right words. Surely, I knew that.

Still, I moved slowly and it wasn’t until I witnessed my beloved friends getting married last week that I found the perfect offering. So, I will share with you here what I have written below for the Pisces of this Galaxy.

At a wedding in Oakland, in a Botanical Garden wooden hall lit by soft light and over sixty hearts dipped in honey, I watched two people dance to this song. And in dancing, they offered it to us and each other.

You are a sea of goodness
You are a sea of love
Bless you, bless you, bless you
Bless you for what you are

We can all learn to love each other and ourselves in this way and perhaps we must if we are to know anything about love at all.

With Gratitude,
Galactic Rabbit

P.S. Thank you for supporting me, for believing in me, and for giving me hope every month. I believe in you too.



Once, a sky god could not rest until each star hung just so against the night. That sky god was your ruling planet Uranus. Uranus loved his children but he loved beauty more. Over and over he made small shining gods. Then he destroyed them. I know about that kind of creation, a love that blooms outside the heart and has no blood to live. A love like airplane lights you make wishes on just in case.

How many loved your moments of glad grace, / And loved your beauty with love false or true, / But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, / And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

With your North Star heart, you always mean to be true. You brave the night and orient yourself toward the brightest thing in the distance. But, you must know that even the false is tender, Aquarius. Even the false can call your name. It’s ok if you want to answer, if you surrender to the dream that ruins you. If you want, Aquarius, you can build a whole new life in a new country that has new names for stars. Or, you can choose isolation and call it solitude. Architect of the mind, you hold so many intricate plans inside you, so many different blueprints for Heaven. None of them is wrong, but if I were you, I’d choose what sustains your pilgrim soul. I’d be the man that loved that soul in you.



Last week I was fortunate enough to attend the wedding of two people I love very much.Their song selection was “Revelations” by Yoko Ono and Cat Power. Watching their first dance and listening to the song, I thought of you.

Bless you for your greed / It’s a sign of great capacity / Bless you for your jealousy/ It’s a sign of empathy / Bless you for your fear / It’s a sign of wisdom

Pisces you, better than anyone, know the duality of this world. How, each form of suffering, of disjuncture, is also a form of growth and expansion. You move through tributaries of emotions, lovers and buildings and people streets, you swim through the pulse of the current toward the heart of the sea. It’s ok if you are sometimes afraid, if you are sometimes in pain. It’s ok if you want more than you can handle, than you can have.

Let this Aquarian song blessing river into you. Make the decision, every day, to honor your emotions and desires as they come, to hold them up to the light as evidence of your humanity and your journey.



For a long time now, I’ve been asking you to challenge yourself to be brave. I wonder now what that advice must sound like to you, someone who has made a life out of being brave. Perhaps we must learn to define courage in new ways. Your courage, it seems, must witness your anger and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. It must learn how to strip fear from rage so that only hurt remains… and inside of that hurt, empathy and new understanding.

All your life you have been the keeper of fires. Now is the time to understand how fire works, how it breathes and relies on gravity. Anger is a conversation. When tended to it can feed a revolution, when unchecked it can burn down an ecosystem. Your anger is your insight, your brilliant mind, and it is your insecurity—your refusal to grow.

Once, courage must have looked like an obstacle to overcome, a fear to dissipate, an impossibility to make possible. Now, courage must move through you more quietly, slow and insistent light. A kind of daybreak. A beautiful fire that lights up the whole sky.



Recently, I came across an article on boundaries. Boundaries, according to the writer, are difficult to maintain. Especially if you are one of two types of people: asshole narcissist or crazy co-dependent. Since I can’t imagine anyone who would willingly self-identify with either of these categories, I decided to imagine more generous forms.

Perhaps the crazy co-dependent is just someone who desperately aches to be vulnerable after a life of having to be walled. And the narcissist? Maybe withholding her full self is the only way she knows how to act strong. There are so many ways that we, bumbling creatures, can fall into these patterns. And, it’s important to remember love can make mirrors of us, both kinds of lovers at once. Narcissus and Echoes.

A boundary is not a rigid thing. Rather it’s a line in the sand, redrawn with every gust of wind or high tide. There are some things we know for sure about who we are and what we are willing to endure. There are many more things we can only begin to make allowance for. Taurus, this Venus Retrograde, consider where you draw your lines. How can you learn to be vulnerable on your own? How can you be strong without fortress?



In Virgo, communication manifests in the tangible world, what you mean is what you do. Words are not enough. How does this affect you, Gemini? Where Virgo digs deep into the work, frantically prioritizing what feels right to her, you flood with language for a world that feels beyond your control. Praxis and practice, you ache to marry the two but how? It might feel like, in this onslaught of conflict, if you could just say one more thing, one more way, everything would fall into place.

You could learn something about hierarchies from Virgo, about when having the last word will not serve. Power is what you leave unsaid, Gemini, power is allowing space for interpretation without fearing what that interpretation might be.

There’s nothing to worry about, anyway, the worst is over. Mercury will slip into Libra soon and you’ll feel the expansive balancing love power of Venus and the exacting edge of Saturn in Scorpio. In this world with its ebb and flow of misunderstanding, you know you can let the waves make a mess of you or you can get up, dry off, and go where you feel seen and loved.



Because Sappho lingers in your orbit, I want to offer you this fragment from (cancer cusp) Anne Carson’s If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho:

Come to me now: loose me from hard / care and all my heart longs/ to accomplish, accomplish. You, / be my ally.

I’m thinking about how to be your ally, Cancer, or how you can be your own ally. How “all (your) heart longs to accomplish, accomplish.” Slowly you have begun the task of honoring your energy, the service you give to the world, and saving some for yourself. Slowly you have begun to carve out a space for the small kernels of your most intimate desires. You’ve given that space a name.

What now? Nothing to do but love more, love yourself and the want in you. Develop a language for what you desire and practice speaking it. Start with those closest to you then get wider and wider. If there’s a full cup waiting for your lips, let it come. You, who have served the world enough, must trust the world to serve you in return.



When we were younger we knew how to signal our despair. When our hearts were torn, we’d put on our dresses of sadness and wade out deep into the dark. When I needed you, I’d go looking for the lone breath of your cigarette flickering in the violet light of a children’s park. I’d sit beside you, unspeaking, for hours. We knew how to send up smoke, how to be found, but the closer we got the more evident it became that we could not see each other.

The seeing would take time, decades, and even now—there are days when we fail. So often, the failing becomes the thing we hold onto. We forget how much the failing teaches us. Truth is, the more we learn about our hearts and the way they govern us, the better we understand the pain and suffering of others.

Now, when I need you, I text you and say Are you working today? I am suffering. And when I find you, I am not afraid to drag my sadness into the light—to put words around the unsayable. In doing so I give you a chance to see me, to see yourself in me. I hope that in these days ahead when you come to me, you give me the same chance, so that we might be learn how to be vulnerable together, and strong apart.



Three nights ago, in a city where I once loved you, I began to cry with your name in my mouth. We were always laughing, I said and in saying it felt the absence of your laughter. Even as the world fell apart we would wake up laughing. There was and is something about this part of our past life I can’t help but mark as a true loss, as evidence of the beauty of our love, of how necessary we once were to each other.

Not long ago, I found an interview with Leonard Cohen about his song “The Traitor”: (It’s about) The feeling that we have about betraying some mission that we were mandated to fulfill and being unable to fulfill it. And then, coming to understand that the real mandate was not to fulfill it, that the deeper courage was to stand guiltless in the predicament in which you found yourself.


When a sign finds herself in the shadow of her ruling planet, she feels a great pull. When Mercury’s shadow flows over you, take time to think about the parts of you that you’ve labeled traitor. How has fear of loss, of betrayal (done to you, done by you), kept you from being the kind of lover and creator you know you can be? Remember love’s city, how it flooded with tears and kept afloat with laughter. In this new life, there is deeper courage in you, Virgo, deeper strength. 



This flower reminds me of a summer night / that ripened in a backyard in Brooklyn under / a tent that was just a sheet draped over some / strategically tied string fastened to corners/ at seventy degree angles like we were / equating a math problem / under this canopy my head rested in your lap / my mind wandered out into the night air

                                                                                                                     –Francesca Fay

Last night, while painting sunflowers at three am, I remembered you. Petal after petal, limb to limb, your heavy head full possibilities in my lap. I wanted to keep our love alive longer than I wanted you. You kept cutting the stems and I kept placing them in water. Or, you kept saying it’s over and then you kept saying come back. Until there was nothing to come back to, until we could barely recognize what we ever fell in love with.

Under the math of who stays and who goes, who wants more and who doesn’t have enough, under the canopy of what gets left behind, we were just trying to love each other for a little while. And that was a noble thing, a worthwhile thing.

In this Venus retrograde, while you are sitting down at the table of your heart fixing bad equations, don’t forget the sunflowers. How they change, not only the table you sit at but also, the room where that table stands. There are sunflowers growing wild outside too, Libra, full of hundreds of seeds just waiting to open in your mouth.



Let’s give ‘em something to talk about, Scorpio, a little mystery to figure out. Who knows more about mystery than you? Who knows better how to hold it pulsating and alive in her dark hand? It’s a good thing you know what you’re good at holding because this year has already taught you so much about what you’re willing to lose. There are people out there who wouldn’t see the blessing in these lessons but you’re not one of those.

You want Scorpio, you want without expectation or assumption or regret. You want in the places that once flooded with need because you need so little now.

Above you, the Sun is a Lion opening his red mouth. If you’re hungry, watch the Lion hunt. Your future might be unclear but it’s not without direction. This is when what you do becomes much more important then who you’ve been. This is when you harness your hunger, spot your game, and earn your feast



In a Pitchfork interview, about her penultimate album Biophilia, Björk said: “I had to reach so long—between solar systems—to connect everything.” Of her last album, Vulnicura, she can barely speak at all without choking up. In fact, days ago, Björk announced her decision to cancel the Vulnicura tour, describing the performance of its songs as too painful.

And isn’t that the way is seems to go, Sagittarius? First, one feels compelled to hold it all together then, one can barely hold onto oneself. The last few months might have felt just like this, a continuous labor, followed by an utter exhaustion. Well, good things come, as they always do (and must). How else could we survive in this world, this solar system of horrors and delights?

Björk doesn’t intend to give up now. She’s just gonna keep making beautiful things, first out of heartbreak and then out of healing. She knows that in surrendering to making, she is remade. What have you to learn from your fellow Sagittarian? This month, begin again. Create what you know you must. It’s necessary for the world and for you.



All night I’ve been sitting in my best friend’s apartment watching videos of visual artist Janine Antoni (Capricorn). We’ve listened to her describe the experience of publicly mopping a floor with ink using her hair. How the mopping and black ink was evocative of her mother, how being down on her hands and knees made her feel vulnerable, and how she reclaimed power from that position.

I was doing work that was about process, about the meaning of the making, trying to have a love-hate relationship with the object. I always feel safer if I can bring the viewer back to the making of it. I try to do that in a lot of different ways, by residue, by touch, by these processes that are basic to all of our lives…

Capricorn, I am thinking about the ways in which you reclaim power. How do you, in the process of making—of creating and manifesting in this world—negotiate the places where power is transferred, where it can be lost? Capricorn, if you feel powerless, you are not powerless… not over your own life, anyway and isn’t that the only life you’ve got? And, if you are down on your hands and knees, make sure it’s because you want to be, because you know that submission is a gift and a demand.

JUNE Horoscopes!

Dear Bunny Readers,

I give you these lovenotes today with a heavy heart although I have tried my best to be good to you. While writing these horoscopes, I have also been reading and bearing witness to a world that often refuses compassion in the name of power. When I was an idealistic kid in college, I believed that what we needed most was celebrating life together. I organized a peace festival full of anti-war music, I made sculptures out of recycled plastic, I wrote poems about Iraq and my body. I imagined that to be enough.

But it was not enough. It was not intersectional, not interested in the lived experiences of my black peers, there was not one person of color in my arts activist house of twelve. How can I be surprised, then, when so many people fail to recognize the injustices people of color face everyday? How can I be so heartbroken by the sound of each heart closing, comment by comment, to the story of Kalief Browder, to the coverage of a teenage girl at a pool party forced face down in the ground because she dared to believe she belonged somewhere. Because she thought knowing her rights meant she was free.

Learning how to hear the suffering of others above my own is a life-long lesson and I am interested in living it. I hope you are too, reader, I hope that work is something we are doing together in this very wide galaxy of ours. I want to live in a world where we more than just try to understand each other. I want to live in a world where that young girl is helped up and held by someone she trusts, a world where she would never be brutalized. I want to live in a world where Kalief can let himself love being alive. I already know that this is not that world. But what would it take to come close?

Galactic Rabbit

As always, if you feel moved to donate to the making of these horoscopes: there’s a button on the sidebar available for just that <3

P.S. This is me in Russia:



There’s always music in the world. That’s a fact you know and hold onto. Like a dancer of the heart ambling down the street, honk and rumble of cars and trains, bing bing bing of the streetlights, sha sha of pants rubbing, they get you, they move you along. And, because you trust music, because you believe in the unpredictable beauty that comes out of chaos, you are never afraid, never asking “What is the end goal? What does it mean?”

Can you re-imagine the current events of your life like this? Can you take the world as it comes to you with its hands open, with hands that are not hands but small portals of sounds and light? Can you allow for mistakes, for moments of cacophony and tonal dissonance for the sake of something altogether new?

Imagine, Aquarius, a life without fear of the unknown, where what is unpredictable is exciting, where chaos is your teacher and your greatest source of inspiration. A life like a body moving to music. At least for a little while, let that be your life.



On the dance floor last night, a girl was dancing by herself. Her curls were seagreen and blue and as she moved her body to the music, a tiny ocean crested and crashed around her. It was lovely and sensual and almost entirely impenetrable.

Dying with curiosity I moved tentatively toward her. “I know this sounds like a line but I’m just dying to know! What’s your sign?” Giving me a little side-eye, but with a smile, she replied “Pisces, why?” I told her that I was impressed with her power, the strong way she held her space. “It’s not on purpose,” she replied, “I wish it wasn’t there.” Slowly we began to dance together.

I’m thinking now about what we want versus how we ask for it. I’m thinking about how connections are so easy to make once we stop being afraid to be vulnerable and how vulnerability is about being ok with what’s uncertain, letting someone see you try and fail. I’m thinking about you, Pisces, and the way your solitude is also your sorrow. Don’t waste the night waiting around for someone to see through your armor of shy cool. Ask yourself: how am I an agent of my own desire? How do I manifest what I need most in this world?



The raft is used to cross the river. It isn’t to be carried around on your shoulders. The finger which points at the moon isn’t the moon itself.

I’ve read that this might be the month Mars (your ruling planet) keeps a low profile, that due to a solar conjunction the red planet is all but unobservable throughout the month. That might be all for the best because on June 24th, Mars enters Cancer, house of emotional work, and Aries would do well to rest up for such a visit.

Where cardinal-fire Aries does, cardinal-water Cancer feels. The moon, after all, rules Cancer, and the moon is all about what we take with us into the dark of ourselves, our unspoken truths and undercurrents of meaning.

What can that mean for the days ahead? Well, my bright star, I suggest you practice identifying the moon in you and what it does. When emotions arise, when they are beyond your control, relinquish control. When they fill you with uncertainty, imagine them as slow waves, as tides that recede with the shoreline given time. You are neither the waves nor the shoreline. You are everything beautiful that they create together, seaglass, seashell, searock smooth and slick with moss-life.



When an animal like you lives in this world so totally, when she throws herself against the earth with each run, when she smells and tastes of it, it must be hard for her to allow for the possibility that there’s another world, another way. But I believe there is. I believe that we are all capable of living many more lives than we do. Lives that nourish and sustain us.

I have this little game I play with my heart sometimes. When I’m sad, circumstantially, when I need to hold someone who is far away for example, I say “In a parallel universe I am holding you tight.” And I imagine this is true, I let it become true. The parallel universe I want is not so different from the one I inhabit and in creating it (because we are always bending and expanding in time) I create the possibility for convergence.

Soft bull, what parallel universe would you imagine into being if you could? How could imagining such a universe help you create convergence with the one you feel with all your earthly self?



Remember when I thought you hated me or you thought I hated you because we were maybe dating the same person at the same time? Or, maybe it was a gender thing and wewere just femmes who both liked bois and taking our shirts off in public spaces and the world wanted us to stand opposite instead of side by side? We kept dancing together under the same strobe light exclaiming “I don’t hate you!” but it never stuck. It’s like we couldn’t get around to accepting that in loving the same people for so many years, in moving our bodies to the same songs, we had always been learning how to love each other.

The power of the feminine in all of us, and especially in you, is the ability to let beauty move us toward each other in this world. What I’m trying to get at is a kind of softness, an opening of the heart, the possibility that you are more than deserving of enduring and sustained connection. What I mean is forgiveness, true forgiveness, which begins inward and makes allowances for any and all prior mistakes you can’t bear to admit you made. Allowing yourself to love and be loved without fear of being misinterpreted, misled.

For your birthday month, let the good words stick, the good intentions matter and the good feelings last. Each butterfly on each flower knows your name and they beat their wings for you.



I’ve been thinking about the way crabs molt. How they must do it even into adulthood, expand until they crack their own shell and then grow a new one. I love that. That’s your desire to challenge yourself, Cancer, your fearless journey toward your best self.

Oh and I know this might seem obvious but the crab has got to extract herself from her own shell! What I mean is even the littlest bits: thin pinchers, difficult claws, eyestalks, all. It’s arduous and dangerous, Cancer, possibly fatal! And then, if she succeeds, if she doesn’t die just getting herself out, she’s got to manage in the world all soft and watery and new until her shell hardens again. Good thing all crabs have to know is how to be crabs.

It’s harder to be human. Your signals get messed up. You expand but you’re not ready to leave the shell or you’re ready but being human has made an existential fool of you and you fear death too much. Or, you’re brave and shed that old shell so there you are all vulnerable but you can’t just hide under a rock. You’ve got a job, responsibilities, a partner who needs you. Fuck. Wherever you are in your process, if you’re breaking open or broken or so fucking new everything feels both terrifying and possible–don’t give up. And, if you need a rock to hide under, know that self-protection is a form of strength, a necessary ritual.



Clutching the wheel with both hands, I’m learning how to drive and your soft sure voice is the anchor keeping my racing heart from rising up my throat. I turn and don’t yet know my own circumference but I’m never scared, I feel myself grow braver in your presence.

Because it is sustaining, the sun loves us everyday, bravely, and without absence. Heliocentric, we mark our days and nights by its proximity. We don’t know how to name a love like that. It’s too all encompassing. Too always. Your heart is the least boastful part of you and perhaps that’s why you often feel unseen in your quiet enduring generosity. It might even occur to you that there is weakness in your lovers, a dependency that you encourage and disdain simultaneously.

But, Leo, in loving you we behold you and in circling you we give you a place in the universe. There’s nothing invisible about that, nothing weak. So, there must be other ways of talking about being seen and appreciated ways of being for another, or, indeed, by virtue of another that are not simple, that do not deal in false binaries, that know how strong tenderness can be. I believe in you, more than anyone, to discover those ways.



Tiny tornado of anxieties and delicate perceptions, mutable animal, you know too well when things aren’t quite right. What’s more, you work so hard to make it right. You write the letter, make the phone call, connect each loose end as best you can.

You are the only lover, only friend, I’ve had or will ever have who mails me packages with supplements inside, who fixes my refrigerator door while I’m at work, who calls me just when I get too sad and asks: are you ok? Are you too sad?

When I told you in May that you should let someone else be the lover, I didn’t mean for you to throw yourself, heart-first onto the nearest fire. And I know, I know that you are not simple in your devotion. But as my brilliant friend Claire once told me, one’s ability to love and serve can be greatly hindered by a lack of boundaries/complex ego desires. In the spirit of building stronger boundaries, I suggest taking it slow, making sure you really want the lover you take, the job you accept, the big move cross country, any and all compromises in the name of bettering someone else’s life. With Mercury (your planet, your god) just out of retrograde and moving direct in Gemini, ask yourself what it might take to live a life where you come first, where coming first is not about being witnessed by another.



It’s not easy knowing what you need in this world. There’s your body and the soul it contains moving slowly through time. They have wants. Sometimes those wants conflict but often they are not one without the other. But, then there’s the world. The whirling incandescent light of it, the terrible endless misery of it and how it changes us. One can’t always resist the big gusts of wind that knock us about and ask us to lie down in their path. You can’t always help letting the life you never asked for ask too many things of you.

Even so, I know there is a new strength in you, a will. I see you, little by little, learning how to feel the core of yourself again. Even lying down, you have begun to resist. Let the winds come, I surrender to them. With the world blowing, you hold on. Not to be too corny but my friend Claire did just send me the plastic bag video from American beauty and it’s like, ok, that bag is getting blown all around but it’s still beautiful and never not itself.

You are so lovely, Libra, in your path toward your truest and strongest self. I can’t wait to see just what magic you’re capable of. And, uh, if you want to take a look at that bag:



Did you hear the news about Pluto? Turns out Pluto has got some moon problems, some floppy moons. Well, the deal is that Pluto has a moon named Charon and Charon is so big she’s practically her own planet (not that everyone agrees Pluto is a planet but I do so). Well because of her status as a Big Beautiful Moon or BBM, she’s got some gravitational pull working for her. It’s got all the other little moons messed up. They can’t decide who they want more, BBM Charon or broody Pluto. Love is hard and asks so much of us.

We are learning that chaos may be a common trait of binary systems…

Why am I telling you all this? Well, because Pluto is your ancient ruling planet and it’s currently doing the weirdest dance in the galaxy. And, because what these scientists are learning about binaries, about chaos, is something you’ve always known. That power is not an equation and freedom is not the price you pay for freedom. Love is not Hegelian, quite. Two planets learning to live together (and let this be about what lives inside you, who you think you are and who you want to be) each with their own orbit, they might have some moon problems, might look crazy, but there’s also the possibility of grace.



I knew this guy once, a Sagittarius. He was really unsure about his place in the world, what he wanted to do, who he wanted to be. He’d placed his bets on a dream that wasn’t elastic enough to stretch into the life he wound up living. So, he bet on himself instead, got a house, a dog and an engagement ring for his girlfriend.

What he wanted was reassurance, a sense of self that belonged to him. I’m sure it won’t surprise you to find out that none of those things stuck.

Wanting to be depended on, wanting to be loved unconditionally, wanting something we call our own, these are the most human of desires and ambitions. And they are infinitely attainable. When I say infinitely, what I mean is that fate comes for us in uncountable shapes and configurations. What might look like the quickest way out is actually the longest way through. Because when you lean toward clean fixes, when you try too hard to obscure your own suffering with ready-made versions of a life well-lived, you are building a wall between who you are and the life you live. Your sadness has within it the answers you need, take down the wall so you can hear them.



Let me be honest with you Capricorn, sometimes I get anxious writing these horoscopes. Sometimes they linger above me, begging loudly to be checked off of my to-do list. I resist them for a long time because I have a problem, a lingering disbelief in myself, the notion that no matter how hard I try I just can’t will my hands to do what my soul wants them to. This is also a belief in circumstance, in only being able to accomplish within my means. Because my means are discouraging, I often give up too soon.

But, when I don’t, when I take a cue from your work ethic, I surprise myself. I realize that in doing I am creating a new world. By choosing to believe in myself and what I am capable of, I expand my means and therefore my possibilities.

The way you create the world you want is your power. When you forget that, you run the risk of getting into the same rut I do, the one where the hole you dig is who you are and who you have to be. It makes you angry, it makes you tired. When you remember, when you’re your best confident self, what you accomplish is awe-inspiring, is something we can all learn from.


Dear Bunny Rabbits,

Here are the little offerings I have for you this May. I love you all so much even though I have a hard time sprinkling my love around willy-nilly. That’s because you make me a little wiser every month and helps me pay my phone bill, too!

So thank you from the depths of my oceanic heart,

Galactic Rabbit!

P.S. It’s May!

P.S. Thanks Claire!

P.S. Money can’t buy love but it keeps me coming back!



Some of us were born to drag our heels along the dirt path, to slow the wheel, but not you. You, Aquarius, have an inventor’s heart. When the going is slow, you ask “what would it take to clear the path, to gather momentum?” You turn your delicate eye toward the surrounding world and decipher its inner workings.

Sometimes this drive is your saving grace, the spark that illuminates your darkest moments, the spirit that drags you out of the doldrums and keeps you in good company. Why is it, then, that you spend so much time denying your gift for greatness?

Even as opportunity after opportunity comes your way, even as love opens and closes the chambers of your heart, even after days persistent with small perfect offerings, you turn inward. You must know that you are always on your path. There is no way off. You can choose to deny your purpose or you can move forward with grace. The sun is pouring down from the open sky. It wants you to straighten your back and stand tall in the light.



You’ve been working hard to cultivate your solitude, figuring out what it means to love yourself and when loving yourself is the best thing you can do. The hot water whistles and you steep the same herbs in the same cup. It’s good for you… or it’s good enough.

It would be better if you weren’t alone. Oh I know that you’re often near another body, I know that you are full of easy charm and infectious good times that draw bees to the bright pollen of you.

I admit, I am afraid of isolation,

and of the way the land breaks off here
into pieces,

and of the woman who says forever
moving her tongue along my skin
like she means it.

If I believe her, I will suffer.
If I don’t believe her, I will suffer.

(Stacie Cassarino, “NW”)

I know too, soft one, that there’s a closed door in you. Lovers and friends come and go, rapping their knuckles on the wood, peering through the keyhole and trying desperately to ascertain what lives behind it. What fear and false knowledge do you hold onto which keeps the door closed so tight? Maybe it’s time you began the slow painful work of opening. All this time you’ve convinced yourself that the ones who come will not be ready for what they find inside of you. It’s you who wasn’t ready. You’re ready now.



Did you see Tracy Chapman’s recent performance of “Stand By Me” on The David Letterman show? Seems to me like America must have summoned her onto that stage just so she could break our hearts a little. I’ve been listening to another Tracy Chapman song this week, “Across the Lines.” When she sings about the riots, part of me remembers the song’s release date (1988) and part of me feels she must mean these riots, in Baltimore, in Ferguson, in our hearts everyday louder and louder.

Who would dare to go? Tracy Chapman would. Because she’s an Aries. Because her heart is full of un-wavering courage.

What would it look like if you channeled the dynamic creativity you harness toward something that truly mattered to you? Why waste your time with what doesn’t inspire you? Aries, you hold in your body the possibility of uncountable exciting futures. Despite numerous disappointments, you rise and meet the day. So why wait? Failure is a small price to pay on the way toward greatness.



Taurus, I’m writing you from a new cafe situated on Brighton Beach. A grandmother pushes her walker; she’s wearing a red velvet chauffeur-style cap, a bejeweled purple sweater, and there’s a white parrot perched on her arm. Men amble along with their collars starched, silk sleeves rolled up, loafers just shined. Across the street, a babushka is sitting on the cement across from the fruit stand selling intricate white wool scarves.

Years ago, everyone was talking about Coney Island. Performing rituals of closing. There was loss and long-time establishments closed but, concurrently, revived interest, beautiful murals and sculptures. The Steeplechase tower got repainted and you can see someone hammering nails into their nose every Thursday at the Freak Show.

Even after Hurricane Sandy, after so much heartbreak, the Cyclone stands, the flower shops re-open and there, right on the sidewalk, are hills of lilac wrapped in butcher paper. What I’m trying to tell you is that there are places in this world that resist devastation, people who rise up from under crashing waves with their cups full and their hair looking really good. You are one of those.



It’s May! It’s May! The sun is close, the earth is soft, and flowers bow under the tiny weight of butterflies. Don’t you feel new too? I see you wrapped up in bright colors, washed clean of winter’s dust and despair.

What’s love got to do with it? (It should be about trust it should be about us, baby) Everything. Because love is beautiful and generative, it challenges us to be our best selves, to build bridges over impossible distances.

Has love made a bloom of your heart? If so then surely you must have noticed how strangers are drawn to you, how they bring you offerings in exchange for a little of your light. If love has opened you, then the world sees you open and opens in return. It gives you everything you need and more than you ever expected.

But, Twin-star, if you are reading this with a closed heart, if you are wrapped in the shadow of what might have gone right but keeps going wrong then know this: the world can only offer us what we make room for. It’s simple. The longer you hold onto what doesn’t lift you up, the longer you keep yourself at the bottom.



You keep a lot inside, much more than many people around you perceive. You set the table and lay each pain separately on the crisp white tablecloth and begin to explain: when this happened, when this was said, when that was done. Emotions don’t scare you and so you find it easy enough to lay them bare like small artifacts, the pieces to the puzzle of your life. You are, in many ways, the master of hiding in plain sight. Except, of course, from those who love you, who have witnessed you separate yourself (time and time again) from your wounded parts, as careful as a surgeon, and dive headfirst into work, errands… anything that will distract you.

Do you return to those wounds at night, Cancer? Do they follow you quietly home after all your work is done? Perhaps it’s not enough to name what ails you, to reasonably state the case as one might if one were a scientist of the heart.

If I could pull you in closer I would. If I could wrap your body up in my body, if you could feel my fortitude, you might let go of yours. And then you could tell me, again, where it hurts. We’d touch each sore spot together. Here? Here.



 There’s this poem I used to carry around with me everywhere, a cycle by Canadian poet (and Leo) Esta Spalding. The poem, “August,” has many beautiful moments but this is the one I held onto:

You said, there are women

I know whose presence

changes the quality of air.


I am not one of those.

I want to pretend I don’t know why I loved those words for so long, that I know deep in my heart I am a woman who can, for someone—for many someones, change a room simply by entering it. Truth is, I know how to convince myself that I’m nothing special. It’s easy to believe that what sets me apart is exactly what will turn people away. Out of fear or misunderstanding, out of an inability to relate. I know too that in choosing to believe those words I choose the safety of invisibility over the risk of being seen and in being seen—loved.

When you inhabit your diminished self, when you choose to hide your specialness from the world so that those around you might be comfortable—so there is no risk of loss, you give up the chance to experience being loved wholly. You reinforce a belief (you hate to admit you hold) that being loved wholly is not for you and never was but, darling, you are wrong.



Once, Virgos surrounded me. They came out of the woodwork and into my life. If I needed a romantic walk in the woods, if I wanted to make a silly lip-syncing video to combat depression, if I was filled with the sudden desire to get my nipples pierced …there was a Virgo for that. At that point in my life, I so lacked grounding and nurture, the goddess sent me a Virgo superpack. I was better off for it.

Virgo, I know that you often feel called to take care. When your paid work is done, you find yourself facing the volunteer work. When the volunteer work is done, you uncover old favors you promised to pay. And always, alongside the work you do with your hands, are the labors of your heart.

Virgo, know this: none of that work was wasted on me. Just, sometimes it’s important we let the world give back to us. That’s about trust without expectation, about believing the best in people and letting the story unfold without our help. Virgo, this month I give you permission to let the work come to you. “You have loved enough, now let me be the lover.”



There are people out there who have no idea who they are. They look down at their hands and see only their hands. They allow themselves to imagine what the world tells them to imagine and nothing more than that. You are not of those. Libra, you know exactly what your hands are capable of, how to fall in love with your life and love how you make a living. In fact, these days, seems to me like you know exactly what you want and like you might, with a little grease, have everything you need to work your way toward it.

Except you don’t. You know what I mean, you put on the old songs that strike up the old insecurities, you walk the old walk to the tune of someone you don’t have to be. And that’s how you keep it going, that’s how you keep your magic packed up in the back of your closet where even you forget about it. You look down at your hands and pretend you don’t notice how much more they could be doing. When people come close, you ward them off, you let them see the box put away, never what’s in it.

But you want them to come closer, need them to. Every night you wonder where your magic’s gone but nothing is lost, sweet one. Not your possibilities and not all the work you’ve done to get this far. Just take down the box and hold it like it’s yours.



Are Scorpios especially sensitive to SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) or is there another reason that the very same thoughts that made it impossible to get out of bed all winter barely phase you as summer starts to come on? You’re stirring that lemonade and letting all the sour sediment drift to the bottom as you sip sweetness from the rim.

Why not? Is there some law, some ordinance in place that mandates we crawl on our hands and knees begging for salvation until it manifests out of thin air?

If there is then you needn’t worry about it. You are the salvation you’ve been waiting for and sometimes you’ve got to stir the sugar in yourself because who the fuck else is gonna make it just the way you like it? Practicing hopefulness is work and it’s admirable. It’s OK to put planning the future on pause and focus on today. To allow for the possibility that despite everything being entirely up in the air, despite how much sour there is right there at the bottom of your glass, there’s a chance you just might be happy.



Once, in a PHD class on Feminist Literary Theory, a girl leaned across the table and asked, “Where is the body? Where is the body?” She was talking about the author’s relationship to the text but we rolled with it. It was a joke we took everywhere with us. “Where is the body?” we would ask each other over salmon benedict with not enough salmon. “Where is the body?” recounting sex escapades without substance, without the fruit of desire.

Sagittarius, we spend so much time, you and I, asking each other this with regard to the pulp of our lives. We forget the body itself, the flesh and muscle, the bone.

The body distracted, the body put to sleep or buzzing with anxious energy. The body rummages through empty cabinets looking for sugar. The body takes the same meal every day, sufficient without pleasure. The body, your body, needs you to return with offerings in your hands. Give it a stretch, Archer, give it a run and bring it in. An arrow can’t be strung on a loose bow.



There was a time I nurtured the wild heart in me. I fucked girls on midnight park benches and in between train cars. I held their perfect backs as they flew down long avenues on bicycles. I held on and I fell off too. I believed I was a woman with bad boundaries. That I let too many people in too close, that I had a hard time sleeping alone.

I don’t believe that anymore. I know now that wildness is not the opposite of restraint. That one can run naked through the streets and still know nothing about vulnerability. Boundaries, it turns out, are the very thing that gave me strength to love as hard as I did without ever losing myself.

Capricorn, are you sitting at home, sorting through each name in your rolodex, wondering who is worth your company? Capricorn you don’t know everything you think you know. And, you won’t find out unless you let yourself scratch beneath the surface. That means staying out a little later, getting just a little more free, trusting that no matter how wild the wind, you won’t get blown away.

April Horoscopes/ Love Magic

Dear Lovers,

I have inhaled impossibility, and walk at such an angle, all the stars/ have hung their carnival chains of light for me. There is a streetcar runs from here to Mars. / I shall be seeing you, my darling, there

As teenage witches, my best friend and I haunted the carpeted corners of Barnes & Noble on Broadway and 68th and at the edge of Union Square. We loved the occult section (of course) and the poetry section, regularly ferrying books from one to the other. According to “The Secret Language of Birthdays,” she was born on the day of passionate singularity and I was born on the day of passionate actuality. Passionately, we’d read ourselves out loud until we were satisfied with all we knew.

The poems were the important thing. We recited them on long dark walks through Hell’s Kitchen and the LES. After school, we hunted a language that was so big it could fill up the dark spaces we hadn’t found names for. And, although the library of our minds grew thick with writers, we always came back to Adrienne Rich.

Sitting alone, now, surrounded by her books, I am overcome (again) by her wisdom. This Taurus, this bull-headed, stubborn, beautiful poet, whose will to change was a will pulled from a well of endless love. Love for other women, love for this earth, this erring human race she reached for with an open hand. I won’t say she was without fault. Love is not pristine, not a crystal that is born beautiful and clear in the mind. It is a muddy ugly thing, a blood thing, barely shaped and grappling with light. With Venus and Mars casting about in Taurus, and Sun in Taurus on the horizon, it’s only fitting that each of the offerings I give you have a small bit of her words.

With Wild Patience,
Galactic Rabbit

P.S. Thanks again and always for all your donations. Sometimes they feel like they are coming straight from an Angel’s mouth.



Sweet one, I’m so glad you’re here. The nearness of you, your mind, which is both electric current and cool lake, awes me. Once, I wasn’t sure how to believe in you. It can be difficult for a water animal to understand wind unless the water animal learns the value of surrender. I am learning the value of surrender, how we make waves together, how those waves change the shape of everything they touch.

No one ever told us we had to study our lives, make of our lives a study, as if learning natural history / or music, that we should begin with / simple exercises first / and slowly go on trying / the hard ones.”

Aquarius, what I have learned about your magic, your valiant heart, is only a small fraction of what you continue to discover. You are the seed of passion and revolution. You were born with a star in you, a star that wants to be known, a star that belongs in a tapestry of relations. In a world begging for light, you must learn (over and over) what light you have to offer. You must learn how to nurture when you feel abandoned, how to be generous when you are afraid.



There are days, I know, when you feel like nothing has changed. Like the person you are arriving, is the same one you’ve always been, is the same one you’ll be when you leave. Those are the days when you choose irreverence, when you hold on to a part of yourself you’ve already outgrown so that you might not have to honor all the work you’ve done. Honoring that work would mean continuing, continuing whether or not you are alone on your journey, continuing without an end in sight.

If you feel alone, then you are alone. There are years of our lives when we learn how to be alone and those are the years that save us.

“The moment when a feeling enters a body / is political. This touch is political. // Sometimes I dream we are floating on water / hand-in-hand; sinking without terror.”

The distant future is not a fruitful promise for anyone and this world has no intention of proving you right or wrong. It can only give you what you decide you deserve, it is—believe it or not—your most steadfast witness.



“We did this. Conceived / of each other, conceived each other in a darkness / which I remember as drenched light. // I want to call this, life. // But I can’t call it life until we start to move.”

Many years ago, an Aries I was dating told me that she hoped to be the kind of lover who was entirely selfless. Back then, I believed I understood something about love that she didn’t. That love could never be selfless—that to be selfish was to be human. I didn’t know, then, how to imagine god—or the impossible. Now that I’ve dived to the bottom of my darkest self, now that I’ve learned how to live without breathing, I know that love is not being human. It’s what humans aspire toward.

Selflessness can be a tall order, especially for those of us who’ve spent our entire lives sacrificing our needs in order to care for those around us. Because we are less fragile, because we know how to put pain somewhere else and wait for it to eat itself. But selflessness can also be a kind of freedom, a meditation on forgiveness.

Selflessness could mean the difference between being right and being loved.



Sweet bull, last night I took too many stimulants and stayed up late reading and re-reading Adrienne Rich, writing and re-writing the same sentences. I lay awake, muscles twitching, listening to the squirrels meticulously scratching their way into my home.

“I am an instrument in the shape / of a woman trying to translate pulsations / into images     for the relief of the body / and the reconstruction of the mind.”

What is a body, Taurus? This thing we haul out of bed, rinse and empty? All my life I have been shown how to care for it, eat the right things, move enough. All my life caring for it was not the same as loving it.

You store your treasures in tough boxes, take the glass from the edge of the counter, and polish what needs polishing. Taurus, in caring for yourself, you are re-entering a web of connectivity. Your physical presence will reconstruct your mind. There will be days when touching yourself will mean inspiration; there will be weeks when tears will emerge as a new language.



“when I think of landscape I am thinking of a time. / When I talk of taking a trip I mean forever. / I could say: those mountains have a meaning/ but further than that I could not say. // To do something very common, in my own way.”

My Tender Prince, your star is so bright these days, I feel illuminated just looking at you. You, more than anyone I know, have learned what a year is made of. Who was that dark cloud moving erratically over the blocks and avenues? You wouldn’t even recognize her.

She was doing the necessary work of shifting so much sadness from her heart.

I love your will, the way you build the space rocket piece by piece before setting off for the moon. The way you trust your path—even when it’s uncertain, even when all forces seem ranged against you. Magnolia trees bloom in early spring, before their leaves develop, and in late summer—after full leaf development. Perhaps you missed your first chance to open, to bring all your color to the world. I know that you can feel summer coming and summer is your season, you’re ready now.



Today winter is a hush sound over Lake Seneca and there are crocus coming up, bright and without responsibility. We are not like them, simple with beauty. We must live through every season. I want to walk with you down the rock path by the water, hold your hand, small gesture.

I know you are heavy, see you straining with the weight of responsibility, the suffering of those closest to you. Family relations are not fixed; they are vulnerable to the people that choose them. They are subject to waves of chaos just as much as they are places of refuge. More than that, they are a part of us, something that can’t be erased with busy schedules or distance. Your family isn’t what you’re doing; it’s who you are.

” …No person trying to take responsibility for her or his identity should have to be so alone. There must be those among whom we can sit down and weep, and still be counted as warriors.” In the dim light of evening, when your work is done and time sits still between us, I am waiting for the opportunity to hold you up like you have done for me time and time again.



Once I adored a Leo boy. In winter, we walked the Coney Island boardwalk and took our love slow. For my birthday he gave me a tiny jewelry box. Inside: a blushing porcelain rabbit and a long rusty nail. His love: so precious I couldn’t stop imagining it breaking in my hands. His love: drove right through me, sharp and without compromise. He was bipolar. He told me he was undeserving of love. He called himself a god and I worshipped at his feet.

“this we were, this is how we tried to love,/and these are the forces they had ranged against us,/and these are the forces we had ranged within us,/within us and against us, against us and within us.”

When I write you about this mad love, it’s only because I want you to know that I see both sides of you, the rabbit and rusty nail, the fragility of your affection and the iron-strength of it. Each time you have loved, each time you have been the lover, you thought you had to choose. You don’t have to choose. If you can learn to love as both, the ones you love will honor both. If you can learn to love as both, you won’t have to lose.



In the middle of the city is a verdant field; in the middle of the field is your body. Through your body runs a heavy branch, a branch the fell from a powerful tree, a branch that belonged to your ancestors and also to no one because it is made of what you are made of. To get this far, you’ve had to protect that little piece of life in you. You’ve employed deliberate coping mechanisms that allowed you to feel in control. But, you can’t control your relationships. You can’t control how you are seen and how you are loved. All you can do is drink the light and water around you and use it to grow.

“what in fact I keep choosing//are these words, these whispers, conversations/ from which time the truth breaks moist and green.”

When you speak your truth, not what you want to believe but what you’re afraid to admit you believe, buds break from the branch and open like small green promises. Sometimes the truth might feel ugly, unmanageable but aren’t you tired of carrying the hardness of winter inside of you? Be warned, Virgo, it hurts to bloom, each opening a small wound and so delicate.



A woman outside is pushing her walker through a half empty parking lot. I watch her from the third floor of the room I am sleeping in. I feel her look up at me, or she feels me looking and there we are, watching. She moves on and I turn back to my friend who is doing yoga stretches on the living room floor. To see someone is an ordinary thing. Everyday, we take each other in. These are already moments of love, small openings we create in ourselves so that someone’s humanness can pass through.

“Am I speaking coldly when I tell you in a dream or in this poem, there are no miracles?”

You’ve been waiting for the big sign, the promised thing, a bird with your life in its mouth. I’m not saying it’s not coming but what if it’s not coming? What if all you have is this ordinary life? There must be something beautiful here, your beloved brewing your tea, your cats preening on your lap, your limbs stretching out with their fleshy mystery. There must be something beautiful here and if you can’t see it right now—that’s ok. It sees you.



When your heart breaks even though you thought heartbreak was impossible, consider your heart. Consider the wealth of it, how it pumps blood everywhere like a perfect engine, a hungry mother in the kitchen. Lie down. Lie down and don’t move. In the kitchen of your heart, a mother lies down and the tile is cold.

Maybe this is what love is. The opposite of death, a constant hunger. Maybe you are stronger than you ever imagined yourself to be and all the secret small regrets you’ve stored inside have taught you how to forgive, have made a good animal out of you.

Your heart breaks and you close a door. A new door is possible. “…The door itself makes no promises / it is only a door.” You know that you’re leaving, you just don’t know what’s worth taking with you, what you’ll need. Scorpio, there’s always more on the other side. You just won’t know what’s there until you walk through.



It seems like I am always in a car with you. You’re dropping me off or picking me up. You’re driving me across this country, amnestic with dead cotton fields and corn rotten in the ear. In the small privacy of this machine, you’re telling me the story of your life, or your day, which is emblematic of your life. I know I am taking care of you with my listening, I know that now is the time for feeling not acting.

“Until we find each other, we are alone.”

Sagittarius, I know that in doing for others you seek to understand them but it’s not your job to protect everyone you love, it’s not your job to uncover everyone’s small pain so you might feel it for them. No one expects that from you, certainly not me. I want you to know that I see you trying, working doubly hard to overcome your own disappointments so that you might be a good partner, a good friend.

Let’s just listen to each other for a while and let that be enough.



Dear Sea-goat, it’s true that you have psychic powers, that the river of this world pulses right through you and onward. It’s true that when I have spoken badly of you, I felt your face enter my mind like a warning, a librarian leaning over the stacks and shutting me up.

It’s true that you are capable of great generosity, that there is a healer in you, that you are the one who taught me how to poultice a wound and sweeten lemonade just right.

“Only our fierce attention / gets hyacinths out of those / hard cerebral lumps, / unwraps the wet buds down / the whole length of a stem.”

I won’t deny the good, how it comes in waves, how it cloaks you in a rich colors. It is what keeps those who love you close. But there are those who leave, who refuse to stay, who see the unkind parts of you. In your worst moments, you blame them for their leaving, you throw up your hands, dress yourself in one thousand masks that only a hint at your real face. But at your best, you are a fighter, a soldier of love, a woman without artifice who is willing to change so that she might protect what means the most to her.

Don’t let your ego get in the way of your heart.


Dear March Hares,

This is the month when winter begins to leave us, when we dive into love like sparkling fish into oceans or roast our desires over the fiery spits of our hearts. There is Neptune in Pisces and Mars in Aries and Pallas Athene in Sagittarius. These are momentary homecomings with bright and pulsing impact. We are changed by what comes again. We are dual now, as we are always, but there is hope too—something about spring, about rebirth. I am right here with you, coasting on the edge of surrender and it is not easy. It’s not supposed to be easy.

But it feels good, even the aching, And, as one Janis Joplin once sang, Feeling good’s good enough for me.

Thank you so much for coming to me, for reading these small love letters/offerings.


My Very Best,

Galactic Rabbit


P.S. Thank you for all the donations, no matter how small. They give me hope. I love you all.

Here is a link towards donations if you are so moved:

P.P.S. I would not be able to write these horoscopes without Claire Skinner, this is a fact.


Night walking together, I can feel your hand empty beside mine. I want to reach over and hold it but I don’t. Instead, I imagine the cups of your palms filled with the buzzing light of stars that dot the sky above us. I imagine you the keeper of uncountable small universes. I think you must be very powerful. You talk to me as we move together, you tell me beautiful things but you don’t speak about your heart.

In her poem “Waiting,” Allison Benis writes: When I hear her set her coffee back on the counter, I look at my napkin to pretend I’m occupied with my love of circles. This could be an aerial sketch of twirling ballerinas, I think – each dancer ignoring the small white pain in her ankle.

Aquarius, I can see the dancer in you, the pain moving in quiet elegant circles. When our hands are empty together, they are never empty of stars, and for this reason we often forget to touch. But if you wanted to come closer, if we placed our palms together, we could dance instead of walking. If you trusted your own softness, it would not let you down.



I can’t give you what you want although I try. I visit you beneath the big tree and bring you small gifts: plums, amethysts. They please you but they’re not enough. When I am away from, you do not write and I miss you. The universe sends me missives, a piece of glass reflecting your wet face, sequence from a dress you loved left scattered in the dirt.

Water-animal, you’re not so weak. I have seen you flood a room with love, a river not gentle. When you ask me to care for you, you do not mean as I would care for a small child or an exhausted lover. You mean that I might reach into dark water and cup the moon reflected there. You mean that I might cup the moon. But, Pisces, it’s only a reflection, a piece of light, a fragment in the eye.

You ask for the impossible because you won’t let yourself be cared for. I hold you in my hands, and then you’re gone.




Imagine we are in a dim room, my kitchen. I give you my Tarot deck and, as you shuffle, I boil water and pour you a cup of tea. When the cards unfold, they are too close, first the eight of wands, then the seven. I sit across from you and watch you try to make sense of it. I can feel you imagine the eight of wands: clear communicator and creator, successful in your ventures. And then the seven: defensive, trying—often with difficulty—to balance your footing, your ideas, your goals. Which one are you?

Both, I think, as I cut you a piece of cake and add hot water to your cup. On your best days, when you can see yourself, you are exactly the creator you have always wanted to be. The days open up like treasure chests around you, treasure you have dived tirelessly for, going down again and again so that you might find the rewards you seek. On your worst days, there is a part of you that cannot see beyond what’s missing, and you spend your hours wondering whether all your work is worth it. You forget how to trust the world around you because you can’t remember how to trust yourself.

Put the cards back in the deck, Aries, you are the only one who decides which life you want to live.




There are those of us who always expected we’d become adults. We spent our childhoods taking care, not only of ourselves, but also of our parents. We often did this quietly, simply denying ourselves what we wanted or imagining we were never meant to have those things at all. When sadness rose up in the throats of our loved ones like driftwood, we quieted it away.

Now, walking along the path of our grown-up solitude, it’s hard to ignore the houses we’ve built with all that sadness—small structures made of twig and twisted wood no one could live in, not even us.

My beautiful bull, I hope that one day you look back at yourself at this moment and see someone newly learning how to be young again—young in the heart and in the spirit. It’s not your job to maintain what never belonged to you so, whatever sadness you’ve inherited from the world around you, let the world hold it while you practice being free.




There’s no getting bored with you, Twin-star. If there’s music playing then you are the one playing it, or dancing to it, or raising your friends up out of their seats so that they might dance with you. In the gauzy fog of the beauty you offer up, it’s hard to see what’s missing, what you hide away.

Perhaps you forget yourself too. Perhaps, under hundreds of tiny disco lights or innumerable unfinished projects you convince yourself that being busy is enough.

Life shouldn’t be a collection of beginnings without ends and destinies you dreamed up for some future girl you convinced yourself you haven’t got the time to be. Gemini, what if all the other dance floors melted away and the only one left was the one you wanted to base your life on? What songs would you let define you? Who would you invite to dance? How dark would you let it get?




Did you know that in the Tarot, The Chariot is most closely associated with Cancer? I must admit that my knowledge of astrology comes in waves, intuitive understanding layered by study and obsession. For a long time, I couldn’t quite place the word control, why it came up so often when I thought of you. The Chariot opened something up for me.

Plato once described The Chariot as an allegory for the human soul. The charioteer drives two horses, one noble and one ignoble, toward his destination. The driving is troublesome yet the journey is necessary—toward truth.

I don’t believe in noble or ignoble. There is wisdom to be found in darkness and in light, neither one is inherently good or bad. I want you to remember this as you desperately try to pull the reins tightly on the dark horse. You must honor the chaos in you; it is just as much your guide.




Remember when your hair was long and thick with secret patches of color? I listened to you sing sad songs on old Brooklyn rooftops and I cried into the concrete, I was so in love with your big love. Then you cut it all off. You were bright blonde and brave, you fell for a mean woman who told you what to eat and how to speak. You let her. Later you moved across the country, grew your hair out the color of buckwheat honey. A sweet-hearted boy held space in your heart and you knew all along he wasn’t the one.

Lioness, my photos of you are an archive of who you were with each lover, each life you lived and left behind.

It’s not a bad way to be, not a bad way to move through this world of revelation and heartbreak, changing yourself a little bit each time. Even if you’re afraid to look deeply—even if there are days when the face you see in your reflection scares you. I think you are the best version of yourself now, the best you’ve ever been, getting better all the time.




In “Once,” Mary Jo Bang writes: Once there was my life and it was a thing / Filled with difficulty but it was mine. Virgo, this is the part where I ask you the same question I’ve been asking you for years. Whose life is the one you’re living? Only, this time, I’m not looking for an answer. I’m not interested in your accomplishments, or all the things you’ve done to get this far. I know you know how to work hard, how to tie and cut off any visible loose ends.

I want to know if you’re tired, yet, of proving yourself to no one. Of waiting on all your good deeds to bring you just returns.

No one owes you anything, not their approval, not their understanding. And that’s a good thing. Love, it turns out, is not about equality. Not about who loves whom more, or most, or not enough. It’s about being strong enough to care for each other. It’s about learning how to truly care for yourself, in your most lonely hours—with no one watching.




You know everybody’s secrets. Not because you have one of those faces a person can trust, not because you’re always asking just the right questions. There’s just something about your steady gaze, your unflinching commitment to an honest moment. That’s how come I always wind up making out with you, or wanting to, or calling you up the moment I get to where you are. You’re easy to be around.

In my most selfish moments, I find you unquestionable. I marvel at your firm grip on what I drunkenly call reality. I praise your big dreams and your romantic nature. Who else would let me fuck them in plain sight under the apple blossoms of the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens like we are both Pablo Neruda? In the morning, sober, I find myself wondering who you really are and if, all these years, you’ve ever really let me know you.

I’m not saying you owe me your secrets. I just want you to know that if you ever want someone to hold a little space for what you need—all you have to do is ask.




It’s International Women’s Day and you don’t have enough money to buy your mother a bouquet. You call your best friend and, next thing you know, there’s 40 dollars in your Quick Pay account with a note: “flowers for mama.” It’s the end of a long week and you can barely get out of bed. A different friend tells you to be ready in twenty, you get dressed and she pulls up, takes you to breakfast. She asks all the right questions and doesn’t turn away when you begin to cry.

Listen, I know it’s been a hard year. I know you didn’t get what you wanted and you lost more than you ever thought you could live with losing. It’s going to be ok.

A long time ago, you told yourself you were on your own. You kept letting people in, sure. You are good at being the lover. It’s the being loved part you have trouble with. It’s hard to allow yourself to be vulnerable when it takes all the energy you have just to convince yourself you’re strong. Well, despite your best efforts, all around you are people who would love nothing more than to hold you up. You should let them because you need it.




Let me tell you about Pallas-Athene, who you might know as Athena, goddess associated with creativity, logic, and war. It’s easy enough to find icons of her, Amazonian in stature, lesbian in their vibe. These icons don’t allow for a complex understanding of the goddess they depict. They leave out the woman who, in order to please Poseidon, stripped Athenian mothers of their citizenship, their vote, and their rights over their own children.

When she is in your house, Sagittarius, you must be careful how you treat the feminine energies in and around you.

I want to remind you that the divine feminine, however it manifests, is in each human and it is necessary. Like the moon is to the Sun. Like the way you hold the universe inside you. Honor the maker in you, the intuitive, and the healer. Honor your time and what you create with it. When you let others (or yourself) devalue the feminine in you, you are making yourself small for no one’s benefit.




Seagoat, ask me to get in your river and I will go down. That’s the weight you have, a looming shadow cast by a skeleton made of steel bones. As above, so below—I trust your magic. I would lie down on your altar and drink from your cup. Knowing this, you must not abuse your influence and or mistake other peoples’ weakness for your own power.

It’s not that you don’t know how to be alone; it’s just that you are stronger in the company of others. Be careful how you choose your company. Collective love, action and grief are a lot like sharing a home, not everyone is fit to live with everyone. Someone leaves the dishes in the sink too long, someone forgets to close the door and when you return everything is gone.

That is the cost of casting your net too wide, of holding too many up. You can’t account for everyone, you can’t always see who needs care most.

February Horoscope Love Magic!

Dear Rabbit Friends,

Long ago, when I lived in Portland, Oregon, and drank only rain and locally squished almond milk, I dreamt I would meet a crone. I dreamt that she would teach me how to poultice any wound. We’d walk through her wild garden and she’d make me rub each leaf and bloom. Burdock root for the gut, she would say, and dig it up tenderly, without breakage. Sadly she never came to me or I never left myself open enough to receive her. The closest I came was a Vedic meditation group, wherein a woman who was also not a woman (something more like an energy field or a tiny planet on two legs) introduced me to the rivers of knowledge that flow over us always. Paired off two by two, we stared into each other and reported what we saw: there’s a woman who loves the color blue, you just lost a friend, the number 24.  She showed me how to reach in.

I’m a beginner. I have spent the past week reaching in for you hoping what I have found rings true. Pulling out each time has been hard, sometimes painful, and I hope it is of use the way a tree is of use or a flower that opens for a few hours at daybreak. I want to tell you that you, dear human stars, are collectively the crone I’ve been waiting for. I have learned more from you than I ever imagined.


Rivers of Honey, Prisms of Light

Galactic Rabbit


P.S. As Always, If you are moved to donate towards the creation of these horoscopes, consider donating! I have buttons plugged into the side bar of this website as well as here: 

P.P.S. Big Shout Out to the Poet Claire Skinner who is my clairvoyant assistant.
P.P.P.S. My best friend and life-sister is struggling to fight horrible Lyme Disease. Here is a link to her funding campaign. I am offering Tarot-Style portraits, spells and tinctures.
P.P.P.P.S. Thanks to Catherine Hayes for helping me build this site and Maya West for photoshop magic.



We are all subject to habit and ritual, the small things we do day in and out that call our most constant selves forward. Sometimes one must go beyond the ordinary. Sometimes one is destined for more. I am thinking now of an old Aquarian friend who invoked her feminine power by tattooing a rose on her ass. I swear to you, that rose transformed her body. We all watched her bicycling around town and considered rose-ing ourselves. Or was there another symbol we could imagine, another part of us that needed power and transformation? I got a mermaid etched around my right breast; another friend got a sweet dragon on her arm. Caution, this is not a tattoo advisory. A tattoo is just one example of a spell. Use your beautiful mind and conjure the possibilities. You are a rare thing, a flower that blooms bright in the deepest winter. While the Sun transits through you, Aquarius, consider the grander gesture. What does your body need from you? Imagine yourself standing inside the full light of your power. Behold yourself.



If you’re hurting, sweet one, it’s not your fault. Some of us were born with wilder hearts. Some of us lie down in the dirt road just to feel the crazed pony of love galloping toward us from miles away. Some us know that a healing wound is a prelude to a fresh new ground made for breaking. So we rip ourselves open each night just to get it over with. The moment I began to write this my heart tightened into a fist. Pisces, it’s painful where you are, it’s a dark place and I don’t want to go. The good thing is that you don’t need me, or anyone. You and you alone know the way out. That’s your dark power: the rope that descends from the sky like a god wove it herself. I can feel you climbing, can feel your magic hands stack one on top of the other. Slowly you are learning what it means to take care of yourself in every sense of the word: financially, ambitiously, and passionately. It’s just that the climb is long, arduous. It’s just that there are days when you need rest and resting might mean letting go. Don’t let go. You owe yourself this.



You were the one who taught me how to be in awe of love, how to say yes, to be the kind of lover who bent time and space in the name of desire. You stretched yourself over me and my skin became a cloud of fireflies. You taught me about light. I remember the nights of trying to let go, how I knew you’d walked into the bar before I saw you, my body already gravitating towards yours. I remember the exact way your fingers held onto my hips, how we moved as one although we were already broken. We made out in the alleyway by the Lex, our hearts burning up into ash. And I went home with you. And I went home with you. Fire-star, you taught me to be fearless in my surrender and generous in my forgiveness. This month, tonight, under whatever moon we share, I am asking you to do the same for yourself. Of course there will be loss, there is always loss, but you are a necessary soldier in an army of lovers. What would it look like if you chose to be brave?



I’m writing to you at the edge of a blizzard. The steps to my home are slick with danger and the salt I shake there just lies on the surface. I am writing you at the edge of a blizzard, the snow coming down and down around us, obscuring the color of all things. O beautiful bull standing in the great white fog, who are you now? Who will you love? Who will take care of you when you need taking care of? Stop asking. The sky is larger than the snow will have you believe and the road continues where your vision ends. If you’re not ready, then this is the part where you come inside, make your own meal, and stoke your own fire. But, if you want it be, then this is when you choose to walk toward the unknown. Consider desire, yours, and locate it within you. Remind yourself that desire is not rooted in fear, is not interested in limitations or illusions. It only wants your consent, your surrender. Ask yourself what it might take for you to truly let desire course through you as if it were blood, as if it were vital to your survival. Now hear me when I tell you that it is.



I have, in my own way, loved you all of my life. You were my childhood best friend, my crush, my wolf-pack sister, and my brother. You were the first girl that ever broke my heart and for a long time I held myself at a distance. For this reason, it has taken a long time for me to see you. I want to tell you that there is an incredible generosity in you, a desire to stand guard tirelessly before anyone who needs your protection. It manifests as a beautiful shield you carry. It glimmers in the light and attracts others to you. You are so beautiful in those moments, so clear. But, there is also this loneliness, a quiet thing that eats at you and holds your truest self back when all you want is to call it forward. These days, you can feel it coming on more and more, a dark cloud that gathers in your throat, a restlessness with little release. Twin star, I know that you have had to look for beauty in betrayal one time too many, that you have had to lose. I want to say I’m sorry. I want to say that it’s lovely just to witness you, that anyone should be so lucky.



You are both the moon and the crow’s black wing spread open. I adore your quiet power, your tireless work toward holding up the night. In your heart is a space few can imagine, a capacity for love that is boundless and without conditions. It is not a space, however, that is invulnerable to cruelty and the unkindness of others has the power to affect your greatly. Perhaps this month you can skip the meditation on forgiveness, on maintaining your gentle core while protecting yourself from pain. It is wise to remember that cruelty is a tool, a gesture that demands attention. It is a letter you don’t need to open, a word you can leave filling up someone else’s mouth. It is hard to be the moon. Emotions lapping at your feet wave after wave. Their source and intention are not your concern. You have bigger things to accomplish. There is dancing to be done, after all, in the company of stars.



Remember the night we talked about everything? The hours kept coming on and we leaned into them, laughing. You were wearing that funny fur hat you love and pouring me whiskey after whiskey. We were casual about our sadness, sprinkled it like salt on the bread and butter necessary-ness of our friendship. I felt like kids again, I let the Leonard Cohen records you put on flow over me like melodramatic medicine and I couldn’t love you more. Now that we are apart, I worry. I worry that you wake into a day that is without music. You are so busy blaming yourself for the shortcomings of the night before you forget how fucking amazing you are, how much power you have over the world around you. It doesn’t suit you, this refusal to find humor in life’s harsh lessons. Things end, they fall apart, they disappoint you; even stars burn up and die. Should we forever drag ourselves across a dark sky repenting? You are the Sun, a small universe, create something new, start again.



Once, every woman we knew stroked the witch in her. We covened in small apartments and wove together like tight baskets filled with midnight. We let the fire call us by our names and we burned the books of men who did not deserve our company. Once you thought you knew what stood in your way, now you know better. Now you know that the only book that needs burning is the one you keep buried in your heart: book of lies, book of wish I was what I am not, book of regret, book of impossible. Last year was the year you let your heart destroy you. Wild one, remember the river? The beer and oranges you placed around its mouth as offerings? This time around there is nothing left to sacrifice; you are the one you’ve been waiting for. Every step you make towards self-care is a step toward power. Imagine the book of what your life cannot be. The book you wrote that has ruined you. Breathe deep and strike a match. Now you’re awake, now you’re on fire. See your reflection? Clearer and clearer.



You might not be my lucky star but you’re lucky. You have, time and time again, found your way out of a dark forest using only your heart for a compass. In the clearing, where the moon could finally reach you, the city sparkled below like a promise and you forgot to look back at the thicket you had narrowly escaped. Looking back might have meant realizing that there were parts of you that never made it out of that darkness, parts of you that you would just as soon forget. In your own way, you have begun you descent toward the future you have always wanted. Or, at least the future that makes the most sense for you as you are now. But, forgetting is an active practice. One must commit to the art of it, to its consequence. One must decide that forgetting is better than learning and in doing so one must admit a love of disappointment. Don’t you think you can do better? Under this new night sky, shine your heavenly body on me, Lucky Star. Don’t be afraid to honor your mistakes, they are your quickest path to being the lover you always knew you could be.



 I have done my hitch over the plain houses, light by light: lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind. A woman like that is not a woman, quite. Remember when your heart was a fortress, a kingdom indestructible? Women loved you without protection, moths sacrificing themselves to your flame. Was that what power felt like, to love and love more without breaking? To let the broken come to you? Now it seems as though your nights are meant for sleeping. Women come or they don’t come. Who can know these things? Who is allowed the privilege of knowing? There is too much water in you; a cup that can’t stop spilling and it shames you. You were meant to roam the dark forest of desire, not to build a home from the bones of lovers gone. Now your heart, that bastard, keeps gorging itself on the wrong meal. Or, the right meal but the wrong mouth. Fuck it. The right mouth. It’s everything else that’s wrong. It’s you, the burning kingdom, the wayward witch and empty house. Let it burn; leave nothing behind.



Billy Idol (Sagittarian rock god) is on the radio and we are dancing along in our seats, pumping our fists softly in the air, trying to do our work. Our backs hunch in concentration and our coffee gets cold with all that thinking. Truth is, you are so tired of doing. You would rather be sleeping. Little sister what have you done? Nothing. You would rather be drinking. What’s with all these big questions that just keep coming on when you haven’t got answers? Who does this world need me to be? How do I make something that matters? Oh archer, sometimes questions are just doors we walk through. They lead to hallways, exits, whole towns we never knew we wanted to explore. Each one with its own significance. Sometimes the biggest baddest bravest thing you can do is stop looking for answers and take pleasure in the asking. Here is a door, and here, and here. Open them. Open them. Open them.



Often you have asked the world to prove itself to you, knowing all along that every deal has a debt that needs repaying. “If there is a shred of goodness in you, you will grant me this,” you cried, knuckle deep in the dirt. And the dirt gave way, and you got… something. Sometimes it was exactly what you asked for, often late, often to your great surprise. And sometimes, what you asked for shifted to become what you needed, what you could not have known was missing until it came to you. Perhaps the world has proved itself enough for a while, even though turning on the news will break your heart, even though the living feels irreparable. If there is work to be done, it is your turn to do it. In your hands, the earth you clawed up in the name of goodness had begun to dry up. How will anything grow there if you refuse to water it?