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We
You and me. 
Me and you. 
Doing things that
Children do. 
Lightning bugs
And double dutch 
Grownups think
We talk too much. 

But you know, I think
We did alright.
Those endless days
That never turned to night. 

Me and you.
You and I.
Watching summers
Pass us by. 
Year by year
It seemed so slow
Watching one
Another grow. 

Falling in love
Beneath the silvery light
Of carefree days
And endless summer nights. 

Two of us, just
You and me. 
Working on
a family.
Trying hard to
Get it right. 
I mess up and
Then we fight.

Sleeping on the
Couch again tonight. 
But I still believe
That I was right. 

You and I
All I know, 
Love is such a
To and fro.
Seasons come and
Seasons go. 
Remember when it
Moved so slow? 

Wish I had another life or two. 
Another 150 years with you.
Scarlet McCall Jun 2017
An abstract of an academic paper written by a doctoral student: "In this semimanifesto, I approach how understandings of quantum physics and cyborgian bodies can (or always already do) ally with feminist anti-oppression practices long in use. The idea of the body (whether biological, social, or of work) is not stagnant, and new materialist feminisms help to recognize how multiple phenomena work together to behave in what can become legible at any given moment as a body. By utilizing the materiality of conceptions about connectivity often thought to be merely theoretical, by taking a critical look at the noncentralized and multiple movements of quantum physics, and by dehierarchizing the necessity of linear bodies through time, it becomes possible to reconfigure structures of value, longevity, and subjectivity in ways explicitly aligned with anti-oppression practices and identity politics. Combining intersectionality and quantum physics can provide for differing perspectives on organizing practices long used by marginalized people, for enabling apparatuses that allow for new possibilities of safer spaces, and for practices of accountability."--an abstract of a paper by doctoral student Whitney Stark

Atomic particles, how can it be so
that your purpose is not just to flow
in and out of existence, building reality--
the stars, cosmic gas and galaxies--
but to “ally” with groups of humans fighting “hierarchies”
and demanding “safe spaces”
(even though their entire race is
at the top of their planet’s food chain).

In this mysterious universe there is no safety,
accountability or identity,
only elements, and energy.
Brief combinations make life
legible for a nanosecond in cosmic time, and doomed to strife.
Biology does not know oppression,
only generation, reproduction,
until our growth chokes us and we fall
like so many of our ancestors, who lived and died
on this blue-green ball.
And one day the sun will explode and blow
even our atoms, which have endured (despite oppression),
and the particles will go far until maybe they sow
new life, in bodies unfamiliar, on planets unknown.
In fairness to Whitney Stark, right-wing groups mislabeled her paper as an attack on Isaac Newton. She was ridiculed as anti-science and a dogmatic feminist.  In fact Stark is referencing quantum physics, which may contradict Newtonian physics to some extent. I really wanted to read what she wrote as a playful attempt to draw a parallel between quantum physics and non-hierarchical organizing, but her jarring repetition of politically correct catchphrases and slogans shows this is only an attempt to submit to the current academic authoritarianism that has taken over women's studies and many other fields--perhaps even universities as a whole--so that professors merely recite a dogma of oppression rather than questioning and exploring.
Scarlet McCall May 2017
The troops are worn out,
the Army stretched thin,
we’re recruiting delinquents,
the old and the dim.

We got rid of the gays,
to preserve the troops’ purity .
Even those who spoke Arabic,
no matter how fluently.
(Mistakes will be made,
for lack of translation.
But isn’t that better
than eternal damnation?)

We’re telling the soldiers
“One more tour of duty.”
The program’s called “stop loss;”
it might cause mutiny.

The Humvees are patched
with armor homemade,
that won’t stop the bombs
or rocket grenades.

Veterans are stricken
with nightmares and fears.
Some find no escape from
their dreams or their tears.

It’s no longer a war;
it’s called occupation.
But we don’t seem to know
how to rebuild a nation.

We’re good with artillery
and planting land mines.
But what we can’t do
is win hearts and minds.

The lessons of history
seem lost on our leaders,
who don’t seem to be scholars,
but careful poll readers.

There are those we must judge
for their lies and their crimes
and the grief they have caused
in these sad and dark times.

How many years
will we take to recover
from this ill-planned debacle
and it’s not even over?
It will take Iraq longer,
from all the blood spilled,
from the wounds we inflicted--
their country, we killed.
I don't need to explain the disaster in the Middle East. Iraq is still a country, but barely. Sadly no one was judged for their lies or their crimes. And some of the veterans are broken beyond repair.
Scarlet McCall May 2017
Hello Darkness my old friend
Who knew your herald would be a *****?
Spandex, and *** shots, and smirky metaphor—
I’ve come to talk with you again
Pulling up shorts and promising more.
Ride that bike so hard—you’ve got to be sore.
‘cause a vision softly ere creeping
Visions don’t come softly these days; they come in your face.
Hot diva so young, telling girls what’s their place.
Came to me while I was sleeping
No time for sleeping, just dancing and *******,
“Female Empowerment”’s  now about stripping and *******.
And the vision, that was planted in my brain
Planting visions of *** is the best gig in town,
raking in millions in dollars and pounds.
Still remains
These images burn; they’re from Hell, I am sure.
A woman’s a woman; let a girl be a girl.
Within the sounds of silence.
Now silence reigns, no beats, tweets or lies.
The star’s somewhere safe; a child in hospital dies.
In restless dream I walked alone
Alone is better than ***** on the floor.
Alone is better than pushed through the door.
Through narrow streets of cobblestone
Call me a hag with flat shoes clutching pearls--
a relic of cobblestone times; to be sure.
Neath the halo of a streetlamp
The glare and the blare of incessant Youtube
promises glory with high heels and **** tubes.
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
No collars for girls; unless for literal *******--
"Submission is ****", said Rihanna (smug in her riches).
My eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
You can’t look away; it’s everywhere;
on awards shows. On radio in shops selling wares.
That split the night
And touched the sounds of silence.
Fools said I you do not know
How could they know? They’re only teens.
They do not know what makes self-esteem.
Silence like a cancer grows
Name it, shame it; it’s exploitation of women;
if we don’t stop it there’ll be much worse coming.
Hear my words that I might teach you,
Take my arms that I might reach you,
But my words, like silent raindrops, fell…
Into the well, of silence.
And the people bowed and prayed
To the Neon God they made
And the Sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the Sign said
“the words of the prophets are written on subway walls,
In tenement halls”*
And in blood on concert hall floors.
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