Boy, oh boy
Will boys be boys
And oh boy, that’s gross to say,

I at least get that,
I mean I try to but here’s to trying

Kind of like trying to speak for women
Or anyone that isn’t you,
you should just not do that…

There’s a difference in defense for the good of all
And then, there’s what we were talking about 50 ******* years ago

Oh, excuse me 30 ******* years ago,
Last ******* year…
2 ******* days ago…
OK RIGHT THE **** NOW…

But I really want to go back to 69
Oh, The Summer of love…
Or the summer of forcing a woman to go to court over the ability to receive an abortion only to be decided by a group of old men if she has any rights over her body to receive a safe medical procedure, all while  the media doing no one any favors guiding a blind division nationally between people and God fearing busy bodies, calling her names and questioning her character as a responsible person, in a not very god-fearing tone, all while forcing Ms. McCorvey again, to get burned more for prolonging an unwanted pregnancy due to waiting on a decision that is determined in court by that aforementioned group of men, which is like the sportsman’s equivalent of just killing the clock to win a game but it isn’t a ******* game it’s a woman’s body, which clearly they didn’t care anything about just as long as they get that **** baby in the next 6 months or so, but as stated above it is indeed unwanted, so really who is going to take care of the ******* baby because we know how much people just love adopting ******* children?
Let’s ask 25 republicans!

But some people talk of 69 differently,

Some remember the Beatles.
Some recall Charles Manson.

Kind of like today
Some say we are putting god back in our government
And The rest of us in 1972 to 2019 are wondering who the **** invited god?
I never knew God and every white person’s, “one uncle” has the same opinion.
Amazing!
But Uncle Alabama shouldn’t speak for God.
Wait until he finds out she’s a woman.
That’d be a kick to the unregulated nuts we can just spew anywhere, like a natural ******* disaster.

That’s what the name of this ******* poem should be,
but it’s not.

Sincere, *******.
That’s what I call this one,
That’s what I call the last 2 and half years too.
And this poem.

And telling women what to do with their bodies.

Some people would think differently.
But I don’t think some people think.

I woke up with a universe dried to my hands.

Post observable,
Post ****** of;

    water,
    seed,
    death

and
fingernails,

scratching at a birth canal.

Who is hungry?

In support of health
tired, my mind body and soul
Goodbye to you noise

The lie is in the mirror and on our screen.
That like button lies to you
Social media is a salesperson
Each photo uploaded is expired meat
Sold as butchers choice.
We are all tagged and complacent on the block
Glee to be valued and chopped.

Every like charges dopamine into a dope-fiends melancholy viens.
I'm high and heart-liked, thus beautiful.

Where's the button to scream?

When did I become disposable income?
I was so poor,
I know I must of seemed like a steal.
My bones are made of dehydrated milk and skin of a mothers welfare.

Support came with regrets, you know.
But how you managed to squeeze a penny from a SNAP of my belly-

You must be good with money
How you,
Leave pockets empty with no change
not even a wallet with a memory to care

Eat your heart out through an ***, Jeff Bezos.
Silver spoon deeply exempted and certainly a love affair.
Don't choke on *** of cold hard ****
It's free of charge,

I can't even save a seat for my fathers cooking;
(also dehydrated and distant in taste and substance)
let alone read a book written on saving money for someone special.

I had a bid in those texts you invested in
I hope you are rich and get all the love
Certainly someone must.
Cause I feel I am getting hungry
And you are getting,

delicious.

5 people just before a walk.

1 decides to stay;
Separate from the flock.

4  people out in the shade
1 saw her shadow and out she plays

3 people who don't want to be alone
2 begun to march and left the other on his own.

1 person out in the cold
Sad and lonely, he goes home.

Sometimes beach roads remind me of a journey into another reality.
An entry way into spoken word of death becoming real.
Colorful tile when I was brought to my knees
A baptism in the ocean that I didn’t ask for but needed
Flying moths the Mayan people call “signs from traveling souls”
Sometimes this place reminds me of death
Other times I’m reminded of rebirth