After long dark,
you can find me in my mind;
taming serpents; kissing girls.
You may not understand
why I've been the way I am.
You're under-educated
and that's only half your fault.

Sometimes I am imprisoned
within the waves of an ocean
that always misbehaves --
but it's not my fault; just the
way the god rolls: making halves
and making wholes.

After the short syrup of light,
you can find me hiding, true;
pulling off ticks; kissing boys.
You may not comprehend
the way I'm fumbled together.
You're under-educated
and that's only half your fault.

Always I am imprisoned
within the crash of culture;
my thoughts treated like worms;
my illnesses considered contrived.
But it's not my fault; just the
way you guys roll: ignoring halves
for conventional wholes.

I don't like cold technology,
I'd prefer bulky computers,

I don't like kindles,
I prefer books,

I prefer blue eye shadow,
To contouring.

I,
Was born in the wrong time.
I wish life was like the 80s,
When children still played outside.
I like old 'scary' movies that aren't scary at all,
But today's 'horror'
Is,
Not even laughable.

I wish I could've watched Star Trek the original series on tv,
When I came home from school,

Or at least seen the original Star Wars, in the theaters.

This generation just doesn't do it for me at all.

I forgot the name
of my old town
and the familiar
dialogues
spoken by the
tooth-missing
oldtimers,
whose skin
was leathered
by the Sun.
Stories written
on their faces
got lost somewhere
on the alleys,
where peddlers
used to
trick kids
into buying
colorful cotton candy.
Grandma’s cat
had gobbled its
last can of sardine
long ago, yet
its languid yarn
still faintly lingers
in my memory.
I see old phantoms
wander between
gleaming skyscrapers
and highways,
where their
homes were
buried
underneath.

Leaf spines do their damnedest
to hold onto broken branches.

"These people -- if you could
                      call them that,"
the old man's shoulders pinch
his bubbling neck, "*******,
******* -- these opinionated
women; my god, I have never
seen the like, no sir."

Mother, why have you left me.
I can smell you on the freshly
                           salted roads.
It is so cold here. The snow
may never stop. The wind
has been picking up. I'm
afraid it may ******* away,
somewhere your direction.

"You see, the thing is, this
country -- no, this world --
has changed so **** much.
It's struck me, fearsome, of
what may stay; what may come,"
he runs his thick fingers through
a rather handsome silver patch,
"I wonder if what I mean to say
is that people scare me?
I don't know what that says
about me or about people."

Father, you sit and you drink,
dying in your work boots;
dying in the arms of my dream;
becoming a man slowly razed.
Your eyes are pale hazel
and they grow apart, as your
tongue pushes out, gone for
a few hours; soon missing.

"Mmm. No sir, I suppose this
world ain't for me. Virginia is
hardly the place I once knew...
You know, my wife, she found
the good in everything -- swear.
Found the good in me.
I envied her, in that one way;
she'd see the good in the *******,
*******, and these women who
just, well, don't know their place.
She'd know. But she ain't here.
Hell, I'm hardly here, tell'ya."

And all my anger I harbor for you,
my mother, I give to the women
I sleep with; the women that
break my heart; the women who
love me forever.

And all my anger I harbor for you,
my father, I try to forget, for you
are my idea of God's love, and
I desperately scratch at your surface,
excusing your roughness injuring my
fingers; forgiving you for covering me
in your blood and everything else you.

A clothes hanger
                   clutches a line
                   of paper lanterns
                                     lighting my next step
                                     on streets my shoes stick to
                                               from wheat beer
I hear the ‘Pit'                      coursing through cracks  
                    &                        inebriating aged clay bricks
                    ‘Pat”
                     of rain on rooftops
                                   & falsely take it
                                       for Charlie Parker's
                                                     'Hot House'
but it’s 2am near Tulane
  & they’ve graduated to
                  tracks from Tremé;
                  Brass jazz & barflies;
                  Mad Hatters & Mademoiselles
                                     dancing barefoot
                                     in the French Quarters
                                            under red fluorescent lights
                                               under cloud-covered stars;
She gets them drunk off dance & song;
Guaranteed to make locals
                      late to last call;
                      shows them back-country gems,
                        the beautiful ruins known only
                                                      by bayou gals
                                                            & city folk
outside,                                              in search of sirens
where the ceiling's missing,
dancing 'till their bodies taste like rain

They 'crash'
                    &
                       'splash'
                                       .....breaking through worn wooden floors
                                                          ­           & cracks in plaster walls
lead by the ‘Pit’                                                     back to the street,
                        &
                      ‘Pat’
                              as other strange drops join the dance,
                              descending from skies to rooftops;
                                                     Finding lower highs
                                                     in search of Bourbon Street
                                                          ­          lost & looking
&                                                                 near Tulane at 2am
my blue suede shoes are dying of thirst,
                                 stuck upon each step;
                                          lacking direction
&                                         looking for jazz
waiting to drown
      in the 'Pit'
                 & 'Pat'
                     & splash
                         of this daily rain dance;
                         Lose myself in this listening
                         as dreamers do
                             on the streets near Tulane
                             At 2am;

One morning, I decided to ask people what their favorite myth is. I asked them what myth did they think was the greatest, and the one that made a huge impact on them. The most interesting one, the myth that would keep you wanting for more. Some people said vampires, some people said dragons, some said the origin of the world, and of course, most of them said the famous Greek mythology. And I asked some, what myth do they think is the most unlikely thing to happen, what is the myth that will never be real? And I was taken aback when some said their favorite myth was **** culture, followed with laughter. As if it’s a myth, as if it’s fiction, as if it’s something that isn’t real.


**** culture is a myth. It’s not real. It’s not happening. Apparently, it’s just a work of fiction for some people. Apparently it is a myth when it’s happening everyday. It is a myth when you report it to them, and instead of asking “Are you okay?”, the first question they will ask is “What were you wearing?”. Because your skirt was the reason, your sleeveless top was the one that gave them permission. And when you told them you were wearing sweatshirt and pants, they will ask you “Were you drinking?”. When someone took away something that is yours without consent and you’ll be the one blamed. Because you were wearing shorts, because you were drinking, because you were just outside. When we teach women everything about not getting ***** but we don’t teach men to simply not ****. When our bodies are nothing to you but to objectify. When you see us and think the word sexualize. When they asked you whether you said no or stop, and if you didn’t, you liked it. It was consensual. But you never said yes, and it’s not ****, right? It is not real when people shame the victim, when the help people are giving you are words such as “****”, “*****”, and instead of calling you a survivor you will be known as “the girl who was asking for it”. It is a work of fiction when nothing happens to the ******, or when some even refuse to call that person a “******”. You will see headlines describing him as an athlete, as someone who has scholarship, any good thing but ******. It is a myth when the ****** runs free, but the victim is still suffering and constantly being shamed. It is a myth when the world thinks men who are getting ***** are weak men, when they don’t think the consent of men are also important. When people continue to joke about something that can ruin someone else’s life. Apparently all of these things aren’t real, these things aren’t happening.



But how could one person even think that **** culture is a myth? That **** culture doesn’t exist? It’s not like the trojan war, because it’s far more chaotic. It destroys and kills people. It lets bad people win and victims suffer. It’s not like vampires who don’t sleep and **** people’s blood, instead this is even more dangerous than vampires. This normalizes something dangerous, something horrible. And the people who do it, who contribute to it, and who do nothing to stop it? Are worse than monsters in mythology. And why would we even call it a myth when we learn something good in myth? When myth teaches us something good in life? **** culture is not a myth, **** culture is happening everywhere. When you turn on the television and see comedians joking  about ****, when people call the **** victim they know a ****, when people don’t believe someone when he/she reports it to them, when until now, **** is still considered inevitable. **** culture is not a myth, **** culture is real, **** culture is happening. And they say **** culture is part of the reality that we have to face, but what do we do to things that bring us no good? To things that damage our reality? We do everything we can to stop them, to destroy them, to crush them. And that needs to happen to **** culture,  **now.