Seated together on the
hard linoleum floor of
the kitchen we played
for what seemed hours
With a small rubber ball
and ten metal JAX
I honed my skills on those
rainy days when we were
not allowed outside to play
From the classic onesy
until achieving all ten
for victory, the game
was always simple & fun.
Perfecting the bounce
was always key and
cat liked dexterity
made someone a dangerous
player to defeat.

Sometimes I imagine sitting under our dining table wanting to chop my hair off, days and nights oppressed, yet not to run the rat race. Partly because I was too resistant to be happy, but with the first monsoon showers, I almost collapsed inside my oversized grey T-shirt that began to turn white, infinite gaps inside mind channels, I sat and watched strange men winning Wimbledon. I stopped writing one thousand words a day, themes and perspectives slipped into a closed brown diary, and I always worried what if someone finds it and reads it aloud in the public sphere in Prague, right in front of David Cherry’s rotating Kafka, how miserable he died thinking he was worthless, how miserable it would be to listen to voices that came beneath my dining table. I talk to a shy Kafka, every day, under our dining table, today he shaved my head.

A poet can ****** you with a single word
..
............ Or cut you in half with a poisioned tongue

people need to stop
with this whole
'real women have curves -
real women have stretch marks -
real women have cellulite -'
etcetera freaking etcetera
this mentality is killing us
i have rolls and wrinkles
and skin dimples
and i am real as the dawn
and my best friend has none
she is slim and lithe
and unmarred by flesh like mine
and she is real
and she is beautiful
and i am beautiful
bodies are bodies
stop it.

Brick
Brick
Brick
Falls
Building a house
Building an empty home
That you will always live in
Where you try to fill the house with your comprehension
But without intentions
You trap yourself
You become your Hell
But some will never tell
The time you spent in jail