I do not just listen--
I analyze,
because the story might have
a real different ending


I do not just glance--
I observe,
for the view might be different
on the other side


It is not wrong to be careful
on what you should believe in

Numbers are swirling in my head
I regret regression
But I have to graph instead
Of a gossip session.

Imagine the first rumor. The first grunt of gossip
The first finger-point of prejudice. It was probably
like noticing the sunset for the first-time. How it
stretched out across the entire scope of your vision,

peeled back into a city that wasn’t the one you were in,
like an orange peel, one skin at a time. Eventually,
the world rounded, the ice melted, ****-sapiens
grew taller. Our voices deepened, bodies thickened.

We learned to survive the cold, the floods,
the irrational wars, and crescent-mooned nights
underneath tinned roofs. Then came the enlightenment,
the evolution of speech. The first cousin of Germanic

languages; the second cousin of Romantic languages.
And then the first rumor. The first appraisal of good
or bad actions of people hardly known. I imagine
my ancestors, 1.9 million years ago, grunting

with raised brow in her partner’s direction. Pointing
at two men crouching behind a large, fallen boulder.
Pointing at a man who belongs to her neighbor,
crawling out of a cave that doesn’t belong to him.

They are probably turning over in their bone-filled
graves as I think of what to say next, laughing at how
far we haven’t come from the ghouls of gossip,
discussing how out of all the occupations in this world:

bricklayer, lawyer, educator, their descendant chose
this noble profession, this calling up of events.

In the lines around my mouth,
You could read two different stories.
        They could've come from a smile.
          Or quite possibly from a frown.
But honestly you'll never know,
Unless, you brave the risk,
       Of coming to me alone,
and asking me yourself.

We arrive at the place
Water running off our faces;
Looking like disgraces
Glibly explaining
That it is still raining.

Just a smattering patter.
Not that it matters.
We'll just sit and chatter
Like social Mad Hatters
At a move-down afternoon tea.

We're all hooked on surreality.
The ladies-who-lunch bunch;
Character assassination over brunch.
Some gossip while we munch
Embroidering on a hunch.

Anything to stay in out of the rain.
After all, it's not our personal pain.
It's some other sucker's sorry.
We will forget it by tomorrow.
For today, while we quickly forget
We just sit and watch the streets get wet.

Talk of the town,
Face of the day,
Gossip of the night,
Her eyes always puffy and red,
Her mouth always wobbling
but that doesn't stop her
from being talk of the town.

Talk of the town,
Face of the day,
Gossip of the night,
She remembers why she's seen
like a rat, or spider,
and everyone avoids her but
she's closer and closer.

Talk of the town.
Face of the day,
Gossip of the night,
A body is found in a river,
Was it suicide or ****** or just
an accident?
One thing is for sure:
She is the talk of the town,
Face of the day,
Gossip of the night.

the daggers spoken and aimed with eyes
such cruel intent, such wicked lies
never more will i fail to be
what those words have done to me
if only they knew the scars they left
stealing sanity is such wicked theft
while on the ground i lie beaten and hot
defeat shrouds my every thought
when will it end, this perilous night?
i grow weary of the daily fight
for in the morning when i wake
i have 24 hours in which to fake
a smile and tolerance of formality
to questions which seek no actuality
'sticks and stones may break my bones'
can only be said in sarcastic tones
while purple moons lie under my eyes
from cruel intent and wicked lies

she said, he said,
what’s in between?
the hurt, the anger and the painful reality,
that in the eyes of many,
i am no longer,
the one who cares,
the one who loves truly and deeply,
the one with a sky full of dreams,
in the end,
in other people’s eyes,
i am not even me,
i am someone who they’ve painted me to be.