Philadelphia, PA    1991 -   

No use in fighting nature

So when a boy comes like a sun shower
I should embrace it. Let's face it
if today I knock on your door, tomorrow you'll rap mine

Old blue eye in the peephole, how coincidental
you resurrected in the good times. Where'd you go
when my hopelessness went from chic to too much for you to handle?

Please, don't brush my hair along my shoulder
or maybe just one more time
Now I see why you don't believe me when I say I don't believe you

I don't know
Why do I still think you're more than a stop along the road

There's no thorn in my side but if your fantasy of me
is simply what I used to be then you're in for disappointment
Sipping coffee in the same cafe, reciting scripts
that impressed a version of me three years ago

But the day has dwindled down into its inevitable hour
so we might as well
This is the only we dance we know
so we might as well
No use in fighting nature

Mar 10      Mar 11

Don't want a man whose got the itch
Don't want a man whose got the thirst
Keep on walkin' prodigal son
Keep on talkin' hero complex
Sure as hell I ain't your damsel
Sure as hell I ain't your daisy
Move along Hungry Lover, dinner doesn't start with me
Oh no, strings do nothing but tangle things

But if you're here to party well,
Mosey over here friend
Cozy up to me midnight man
I've done a bad thing or two
I've done it again a few times over
I don't sweat it babe, it's okay
Come sunrise hide it away
Like a pile of dirty magazines--you could try to swear off them but

is sweet
and all that honey's got
your fingers
stickin' to the

on my drive in,

the traffic reporter speaks one note, softer than two crochet hooks grazing  between stitches. I picture her in her early 20's playing adulthood. Making a scarf and wearing it to her Wednesday night book club. All of her friends   love it   because having a skill--any skill--is in right now. They dive into a discussion on Lena Dunham's memoir and by extension, the author's fascination with her own vagina. The night ends. She saunters into a cab feeling smugly progressive and slightly sauced.

what oozes pre-financial crisis more than a Hummer?
upper middle class American pseudo mansions?
florescent neon t-shirts?
the Wii?
I made a bet in my mind what the driver in it would look like
and it was judgmental but correct

I'm makin' generalizations which isn't typical of me but

I blame the weather
I blame the piles of tuberculosis snow lining the parking lots
I blame the crap pop songs one after another
I blame the latest version of Times Square
I blame social media
I blame the reality shows
I blame the shit that keeps pouring down on us like rain

  Reposted by Bernadette  ·  Jan 19
Jan 18

We lived where the
factories frayed
in a horizon of terraces
where among three generations
I steeped in patterns
of twitching lips
and silent looks between eyes
that ricocheted a language fluent
known only by them
and that grandads and daddies
seemed not to hear.
The lady from number 6 crying
and cradling her cup
was helped out by Aunt Edie who
had just read her tea leaves
in the front parlour
where heavy drapes
newly hung and drawn
served only to thicken the odour
of polish and mothballs
And there-in the carved sideboard cupboards
I would delight in the odds and ends,
learning even then
about the process of finding
and how that which I sought most
would more than often emerge
from the bottom of a difficult pile.

  Reposted by Bernadette  ·  Dec 31, 2014
Shashank Virkud
Shashank Virkud
Jan 13, 2012

my identity
as I fumble
through your
I'm finding
my identity
as I stumble
through some
palm trees.

Sitting on the sand
where I watch the tide,
I'm sitting on the sand
where I syllogise;
sunshine and sugar pills,
of which I am comprised.

if I'm a bum,
it's because you made me one.

Dec 30, 2014      Dec 31, 2014

"What is your name?"
                              ,  "What is your name?"
                              ,  "What is your name?"
                 ­             Bernadette
I should meet new people but my name is Bernadette,
in the corner where I like to be. Peeling a Yuengling
label slowly, while Mayfield tells me he's gonna lose
half his ass by summer

at a pre-New Year's eve eve eve party. Not every head
turns, but I spun the ones I wanted to. You enter the
room and there's a wind due east. I've got a bitten
bottom lip and an elevated heart rate. As of late, you're
back on my mind. The year switches a digit from 4 to 5
and suddenly I can't seem to shake that time I kissed
your pelvic bones in Jonah's closet.

                                   "We probably shouldn't do that again."


You grab my Yuengling

                                   "Do you think we finally have to grow up this year?"

and chug it.

  Reposted by Bernadette  ·  Dec 30, 2014
JJ Hutton
JJ Hutton
Oct 24, 2014

All of my friends were there
and their friends, too
and the friends of my friends'
cousins and their dogs
and their all-seeing aunts crammed into
ill-fitting blouses with
their husbands in New York or L.A.
and their inbetweens sending them
dirty texts and someone, I think it was
my mother, she said, Why don't you
lay in the river
And I said, Of course
The leaves fell
The birds sang a four-note phrase
and all my friends, the best ones,
they tossed half-empty packs
of gum, flower petals, quarters, pens--
anything they had in their pockets
As I passed by them I said, Remember
when we ate the poison berries and
said our goodbyes. Remember when
I played pitcher on our t-ball team.
Remember when Drew took the electric
fence to his crotch. Remember when
we threw Josh's library book into the rain.
Remember when I learned to ride a bike in
sixth grade. Remember when I kissed
you on the backseat of the school bus.

And they said, Yes. And they laughed.

Those were good times.

My brother, he was there too, he hopped
in the river and gave me a push, said,
I'll see you around the next bend.

Life number two, I said.

Life number two.

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