Writer’s Hubris

The way I see the world is better than yours,

fist pump, she said, flashy smile~

to spend our days finding the

best, most appropriate ways of

saying things, to shoot an arrow

out of the moment into the moment,

at the heart of a reader,

is an art and something only the

obsessed can start.

I will sleep on the streets,

as long as I have a pencil and sheets~

the ability to see~

what is in front of me.

My duty is as a reporter,

and a scientist.

My experiment is my life,

and the relevant story,

hot off the press,

is what is happening.

I will say it better than you,

for my craft is my perspective,

and this is my rap of hubris.

I’m gonna do this.

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It’s Mean but I don’t Mean it

I am a sick girl,

compared to the relative few,

born an American Jew,

unfettered, so I thought

about my lack of roots.

Go to school,

become you

was never gonna work for me,

seeing and writing, learning

it’s important what you believe.

Living on the sum total,

seeing all possibilities,

down below, wanting

a bit of this, a bit of that.

Be strong and know that

you have your own belief.

Everyone else can suck it.

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On A Walk Alone

Guided by a blind ambition,

I go down this road

that I’ve always been down.

Nobody waiting for me,

nothing to answer to

but myself~

Here, the flowers smell sweeter,

and the air a little more crisp,

the road is a friend of mine.

Strangers are family,

who promise to lend a smile.

Lonely,

hard to care when it is just me.

Hard to push yourself,

when you are the only one to answer to.

Dreams of big houses,

garden plots

and baby names~

biological predisposition

on hold.

It is not unfamiliar to women

to put everybody before themselves.

For me, everybody is illusory.

I say, they are me and I do this for us.

But then why are there fences

and just so much excess?

I want to be held accountable.

Am I soaking in the suburbs?

The Joneses moved out, a long time ago,

it is just our dreams and sacrifices,

our friends and the strangers,

which we compare ourselves to.

I am without water,

in the middle of the desert,

in the middle of strollers,

families and school districts,

writing a book about the Mistress.

This young man, he told me,

you’re worth more than your pussy.

He’s right, but yet, he does not see,

that a woman’s worth is hard to find,

that she’s raised as “less than”,

that everything she does is considered

value-less because it’s unseen.

Only devoid of her love is he aware

of the gifts she shares.

In those moments of gratitude,

she is known.

I will try,

I will try.

For now,

I’ll be complacent in

the smiles of the passersby,

and the flower petals falling

on the pavement,

evidence of a life

that gets lived~

grill nights and board games,

long sunset walks,

ice cream,

the American dream.

It’s just me that I have,

all of the time.

Sometimes I wonder,

what have I gotten myself into?

Where am I going?

This quiet, settled town is not the place for me,

soul wild and just beginning to flower,

craving to be free and full of desire.

Empathetic human beings,

we are so much more sensitive than we care to admit.

What kind of inspiration bath do you want to have?

They say look at your seven closest friends

to find out who you are,

could we not say the same of our surroundings?

Nature. Noise. Nurture.

I am amidst stillness,

this is my shot.

Time to go inside and find

the water.

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To Stand Amongst You 2.0

She is dying to be seen,

scorched earth and heavy lids.

She is the first rainfall, dripping on the

cracked lips of a stranded crew.

Open to Her,

taste her,

let her quench your thirst.

Show her your hidden parts,

to be nourished,

nurtured,

healed,

in the purifying fire of 

erotic desire,

She is here.

Do you see her?

Do you see her?

She holds out her hand,

for eternity, 

palm up to receive,

reborn with your love,

in each immortal moment,

the phoenix rising from her ashes,

knowing no truth but

the here and now.

She will show you Heaven,

if you can meet amongst 

the stars.

Sitting on a chair,

reading in a store,

floating on the air,

waiting to embrace 

the possibility of 

salvation.

Our heroes always have a love story. 

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Remember to be Grateful and the Magic Lies Beneath

My new dress has a label with the brand name written on it:

“My Michelle”~

the song my father serenades my mother with.

“Made in Guatemala”, also,

triggers my sense of entitlement.

I have a roof over my head,

I have a writing desk and somewhere to write.

Pain teaches those of us who have room for depth,

to focus on what we do have, to tilt the mind to

a positive pole, the maneuver to end the

“victim” complex.

Tiny fingers slave to produce a stretchy dress I pay

two dollars for.

In America, we live like kings,

in tombs.

Dressed in all our finery, covered in regalia,

empty rotting corpses.

Trees do not wear clothing.

I have my wits about me,

and this makes me lucky,

for I have everything I need.

Love is all around me,

I can touch it when I’m free.

Depression is molasses,

but laughter contagious.

When you got nothin’,

you got nothin’ to lose.

In the moment, we can choose.

But the choice is already made,

in the moments before.

What have you cultivated?

Last night, a mystery glass

shattered in my shower,

my anxiety Manifest.

Perhaps there are worm holes all around us,

and we are swimming with shallow edges,

form A and form B existing inseparably.

Could you stand the truth that you are all of humanity?

You are Trump and you are Bernie,

fears and love woven seamlessly.

Rebirth is painful,

tricky to talk about,

so I write.

Worry is a tidal wave,

and I am the fluid shore.

Can I keep the wave at bay?

Fight to live another day?

When will this cease,

I’ve been down on knees,

begging Please,

give me what I need.

But the flood is a metaphor,

spring cleaning

for the Mother.

Emotional destruction for me,

a little tiny fingertip of Hers,

a paper-cut on her thumb,

the kind to forget a moment later.

Can I please stay here?

Can gratitude be my stage,

so I can sing my song?

Ropes and pulleys

jog my muscles:

this world’s choreography:

“that isn’t me”, “this isn’t me”.

But who am I?

Anger, for this question, that I must be something

other than fluid.

Other than wide-eyed at the miraculous vision.

Other than planting seeds and watching them grow,

mastering the cycle of nurturing prosperity.

My boys lie down at the bosom of Love,

beating strong in my chest~

deeply nourishing daydreams,

a glimpse at the wonderful, at the spectacular.

She thrust a knife in my hand and told me to tackle her,

and I did, breathless and excited to throw a punch.

The warrior does not exist merely for war,

but for the spiritual life of the warrior,

to compete with the psychic noise that

exists out of fear,

a frequency we can no longer afford.

This game, this new age,

is transparency. How free can you be?

Can you be as free as free can be?

Can you survive on a daydream?

Little tiny eyes peeking through the blinds out the window,

the storm has ended, come out to play.

Little tiny hands and feet and cock and pussy,

and freedom as our foundation.

Maybe they won’t have to suffer like I did.

Born in a world devoid of meaning,

finding the ultimate truth within myself.

I can show you. I can teach you.

I can be with you.

Gratitude and certainty,

faith and confidence,

the positive pole rising like a shore combatting tidal waves.

Baby, peace be with you,

keep at bay. We got this. We are yours.

We are the grand-daughters of the witches you could not burn.

We live to fight another day,

we live to bring forth the rEvolution.

Fear no more.

Destroy! Destroy! Destroy!

~that which does not serve.

It is born in love, and it will never die.

Visita interiora terrae rectificando invenies occultum lapiden.

The age of Narcissism is over. We are in the end times,

dying to be reborn in the cauldron of creation,

the fire that purifies and ignites,

the passion fueled apocalypse.

Birth and death a seamless whole united,

where do we go when we die?

Does a thumb worry about the well-being of the body,

does a form envy another form for existing over there?

The obsession with the mind is over,

it’s time to ground the power, it’s time for the

heart to take over.

Love a woman. Let a woman love you.

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One Day

 

It is so hard to ride amidst the exhaust,

function on fatigue,

eat out of boxes,

drink chemical water.

You say, “it could be worse”,

but it’s dying slowly. We are dying slowly.

One day,

The air will be clean,

and it will be safe to breathe.

I won’t need to wash my hands of grief

coming home from the supermarket.

I will lie naked and safe

in the vast green wilderness,

this microcosm of matter.

It’s simple really~

when did hate fill the gaps?

It’s simple really,

though you tell me it’s hard,

maybe impossible,

that one day, Mother will call us home,

and nurture us in everlasting Truth,

Joy and Love,

tough and pleasurable.

That day is now!

I scream,

and I can show you how to touch it, to live it!

But I am just one body, one little thing,

that craves the fresh air to breathe,

that longs to see you happy,

to eat juicy fruit and

to care for each other.

Where we love our aging,

and madness is reserved

for the shaman.

One day, I won’t have to wash my hands

of the psychic filth floating through the air.

One day, I’ll breathe from a mountaintop,

and drink fresh water.

One day, I’ll see an Earth,

thriving, delivered, reborn,

the way she begs to be.

I can only dream of it,

from pictures and movies,

what nature untouched by “progress” is.

And no wonder so many have given up,

lost to survival mode,

human animals in the concrete jungle.

Our way was lost long ago.

Those of us here now have

inherited an order that does not

serve, except to destroy.

The revolution is one of the heart,

and it can only be born like a Phoenix,

from the ashes of tragedy and ache.

But how long will it take to learn?

It can’t stay this way.

One day…

 

 

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