The Box by Lascelles Abercrombie
Once upon a time, in the land of Hush-A-Bye,
Around about the wondrous days of yore,

In case you haven’t realized,
Our society is constantly teeter-tottering on the border between pure brilliance and tragic defeat.
A constant struggle that has left a sour taste on the tip of common tongues and has left this nation burnt out and lazy.

Somewhere along the line,
The sparks inside of people’s bellies trickled out into a dull roar and America decided to give up.
They gave up on prosperity.
They gave up on life.
They gave up on each other.

Somewhere along the line,
The common man concluded that failure was an option and responsibility was irrelevant.
That the only essence of life lied within an 8x10 cubicle,
And it was ok to conform to a system that led us into debt,
A system that led us into war,
And a system that led us into a borderline depression.

Masses decided that indulgence was greater than integrity.
It wasn’t their responsibility to make.
A
Difference.

But, Somewhere along that same bitter line,
The burning flame that is our generation, pushed through the social sidewalk.
We began to walk,
We began to talk,
And we began to show a greater for the future than anyone could have hoped to imagine.

In the midst of a rocky start, we forgot who were.
We masked themselves in Abercrombie and Hollister
To hide the fact that we are something better then a text message,
A clique,
Or Facebook.

It became “uncool” to actually know what you’re talking about.
We filled our sentences with lots of “likes” and “you knows?”
We tend to attach an upward inflection to the end of every declarative sentence.
You know, even if it’s not like and question, you know??

On our own we learned to speak
With
Conviction.

With that conviction,
Hold your own,
Know your name,
And say what you need to say even if it makes your heart pound,
Your hands sweaty.

Simply, because we are the people of tomorrow.
It is our job to fix brainless society.
But it cannot and will not work,
Unless we know what we stand for.

There is no misconception of the work we have cut out for us.
There will be troubled times, there will be tears,
There will be hard work,
And some of us will be lost along the way.

But our story is just unfolding and we have the power to
Change
The
World.

We’ve all heard the skeptic’s tale.
Skeptical teachers,
Skeptical parents,
And nonbelievers.
Raising doubts that we are too young,
That we are too naïve,
And that we’re utterly indifferent and careless to ever be a part of something bigger than ourselves.

Well, talk is cheap.
Make no mistake that there is beauty and potential in every
Single.
One of us.
Wake up today knowing that we've made it,
Know that the time has come to start living,
Changing,
But keeping true to our hearts.

You wake up everyday for school
feeling like your not as cool
there all calling you a fool
and their laying down the rules
they all call you so many names
you feel like your drowning in a pool
school isn't for learning anymore
its just becoming hell for some
just because they wanna be a ***
thinking its all fun?
nah its actually pretty dumb
people becoming numb
from all this hate
hoping someone could try and open a gate
try and get them out all this hate
... before its to late
why tho?
because she's not as rich
and you wanna be a *****
well listen here honey
how bout you go crawl in a ditch
everybody has there own story
not everybody can be wearing abercrombie and fitch
so listen here ***** you can hop off now
and give yourself a bow
I don't know how
but take a bow
congradulate how much hate you make
because they found the girl you were bullying
not only in depression but dead in a lake
when are you gonna wake up and realize
this **** isn't a joke

When I was chief creative officer for Liz Claiborne Inc., I spent a good amount of time on the road hosting fashion shows highlighting our brands. Our team made a point of retaining models of various sizes, shapes and ages, because one of the missions of the shows was to educate audiences about how they could look their best. At a Q&A; after one event in Nashville in 2010, a woman stood up, took off her jacket and said, with touching candour: “Tim, look at me. I’m a box on top, a big, square box. How can I dress this shape and not look like a fullback?” It was a question I’d heard over and over during the tour: Women who were larger than a size 12 always wanted to know, How can I look good, and why do designers ignore me?

At New York Fashion Week, which began Thursday, the majority of American women are unlikely to receive much attention, either. Designers keep their collections tightly under wraps before sending them down the runway, but if past years are any indication of what’s to come, plus-size looks will be in short supply. Sure, at New York Fashion Week in 2015, Marc Jacobs and Sophie Theallet each featured a plus-size model and Ashley Graham debuted her plus-size lingerie line. But these moves were very much the exception, not the rule.

I love the American fashion industry, but it has a lot of problems and one of them is the baffling way it has turned its back on plus-size women. It’s a puzzling conundrum. The average American woman now wears between a size 16 and a size 18, according to new research from Washington State University. There are 100 million plus-size women in America, and, for the past three years, they have increased their spending on clothes faster than their straight-size counterparts. There is money to be made here ($20.4 billion (U.S.), up 17 per cent from 2013). But many designers — dripping with disdain, lacking imagination or simply too cowardly to take a risk — still refuse to make clothes for them.

In addition to the fact that most designers max out at size 12, the selection of plus-size items on offer at many retailers is paltry compared with what’s available for a size 2 woman. According to a Bloomberg analysis, only 8.5 per cent of dresses on Nordstrom.com in May were plus-size. At J.C. Penney’s website, it was 16 per cent; Nike.com had a mere five items — total.

I’ve spoken to many designers and merchandisers about this. The overwhelming response is, “I’m not interested in her.” Why? “I don’t want her wearing my clothes.” Why? “She won’t look the way that I want her to look.” They say the plus-size woman is complicated, different and difficult, that no two size 16s are alike. Some haven’t bothered to hide their contempt. “No one wants to see curvy women” on the runway, Karl Lagerfeld, head designer of Chanel, said in 2009. Plenty of mass retailers are no more enlightened: under the tenure of chief executive Mike Jeffries, Abercrombie & Fitch sold nothing larger than a size 10, with Jeffries explaining that “we go after the attractive, all-American kid.”

This a design failure and not a customer issue. There is no reason larger women can’t look just as fabulous as all other women. The key is the harmonious balance of silhouette, proportion and fit, regardless of size or shape. Designs need to be reconceived, not just sized up; it’s a matter of adjusting proportions. The textile changes, every seam changes. Done right, our clothing can create an optical illusion that helps us look taller and slimmer. Done wrong, and we look worse than if we were naked.

Have you shopped retail for size 14-plus clothing? Based on my experience shopping with plus-size women, it’s a horribly insulting and demoralizing experience. Half the items make the body look larger, with features like ruching, box pleats and shoulder pads. Pastels and large-scale prints and crazy pattern-mixing abound, all guaranteed to make you look infantile or like a float in a parade. Adding to this travesty is a major department-store chain that makes you walk under a marquee that reads “WOMAN.” What does that even imply? That a “woman” is anyone larger than a 12 and everyone else is a girl? It’s mind-boggling.

Project Runway, the design competition show on which I’m a mentor, has not been a leader on this issue. Every season we have the “real women” challenge (a title I hate), in which the designers create looks for non-models. The designers audibly groan, though I’m not sure why; in the real world, they won’t be dressing a seven-foot-tall glamazon.

This season, something different happened: Ashley Nell Tipton won the contest with the show’s first plus-size collection. But even this achievement managed to come off as condescending. I’ve never seen such hideous clothes in my life: bare midriffs; skirts over crinoline, which give the clothes, and the wearer, more volume; see-through skirts that reveal *******; pastels, which tend to make the wearer look juvenile; and large-scale floral embellishments that shout “prom.” Her victory reeked of tokenism. One judge told me that she was “voting for the symbol” and that these were clothes for a “certain population.” I said they should be clothes all women want to wear. I wouldn’t dream of letting any woman, whether she’s a size 6 or a 16, wear them. Simply making a nod toward inclusiveness is not enough.

This problem is difficult to change. The industry, from the runway to magazines to advertising, likes subscribing to the mythology it has created of glamour and thinness. Look at Vogue’s “Shape Issue,” which is ostensibly a celebration of different body types but does no more than nod to anyone above a size 12. For decades, designers have trotted models with bodies completely unattainable for most women down the runway. First it was women so thin that they surely had eating disorders. After an outcry, the industry responded by putting young teens on the runway, girls who had yet to exit puberty. More outrage.

But change is not impossible. There are aesthetically worthy retail successes in this market. When helping women who are size 14 and up, my go-to retailer is Lane Bryant. While the items aren’t fashion with a capital F, they are stylish (but please avoid the cropped pants — always a no-no for any woman). And designer Christian Siriano scored a design and public relations victory after producing a look for Leslie Jones to wear to the “Ghostbusters” red-carpet premiere. Jones, who is not a diminutive woman, had tweeted in despair that she couldn’t find anyone to dress her; Siriano stepped in with a lovely full-length red gown.

Several retailers that have stepped up their plus-size offerings have been rewarded. In one year, ModCloth doubled its plus-size lineup. To mark the anniversary, the company paid for a survey of 1,500 American women ages 18 to 44 and released its findings: Seventy-four per cent of plus-size women described shopping in stores as “frustrating”; 65 per cent said they were “excluded.” (Interestingly, 65 per cent of women of all sizes agreed that plus-size women were ignored by the fashion industry.) But the plus-size women surveyed also indicated that they wanted to shop more. More than 80 per cent said they’d spend more on clothing if they had more choices in their size and nearly 90 per cent said they would buy more if they had trendier options. According to the company, its plus-size shoppers place 20 per cent more orders than its straight-size customers.

Online start-up Eloquii, initially conceived and then killed by The Limited, was reborn in 2014. The trendy plus-size retailer, whose top seller is an over-the-knee boot with four-inch heels and extended calf sizes, grew its sales volume by more than 165 per cent in 2015.

Despite the huge financial potential of this market, many designers don’t want to address it. It’s not in their vocabulary. Today’s designers operate within paradigms that were established decades ago, including anachronistic sizing. (Consider the fashion show: It hasn’t changed in more than a century.) But this is now the shape of women in this nation, and designers need to wrap their minds around it. I profoundly believe that women of every size can look good. But they must be given choices. Separates — tops, bottoms — rather than single items like dresses or jumpsuits always work best for the purpose of fit. Larger women look great in clothes skimming the body, rather than hugging or cascading. There’s an art to doing this. Designers, make it work.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses

“I’m not sure if night is ending or day is beginning.  What time is it?” She asked as she opened the door.

“Its about 2:30” I answered.

She was pacing about slightly bobbing her head as she spoke.

“We're sorry to disturb you beloved.  We're conducting a homeless census. May we ask you some questions?”

“I don’t want to be put away”  she said.  “I have to be outside.”

“We’re not here to hurt you.  We’re here to help.”

"Where do you come from?" Ally asked.

She didn't remember where she was from and was uncertain why it mattered.

She knew she wanted to leave Paterson but was unsure about where she wanted to go.

She kept her eye on the McDonald’s across Market Street.  

"As long as the light is on, I know its still nighttime and I'll have a place to go if the cops kick me out of here."

Here, was this evenings lodging in an ATM vestibule.  

"I can also get something to eat when I'm hungry."

"What time is it?"

"Its about 2:30."    

She earnestly wants to know what time it is.  

"I don't want the people going to work in the morning seeing me sleeping here." she said, "It's embarrassing."

Her papers were scattered on the floor.

She had one shoe on and one shoe off.  A white sock gloved an indeterminate number of other sock layers warming her shoe-less left foot, sufficient protection from the balmy mist of this late January evening.   The orphaned shoe lay on its side in the corner of the Wells Fargo foyer.

White, black and yellow plastic grocery bags filled with the content of her worldly possessions lay atop the shelf housing bank deposit slips neatly stacked in cubbyholes.

A woolen hat circled her head.  Her tiny face shone through the gray skull cap tightly tied under her soft chin.

She looked to be in her 50’s.  She spoke in a pale uneven tempo with a quiet anxious voice.  Her eyes were clear.  Her pursed mouth bracketed by a trinity of long chocolate crescent winkles. The sounds floating from her mouth were gently angelic and the kindness of a tender smile was filled with demure submissiveness.

She swaddled herself in multiple layers of coats and trousers bulking up a waif like frame.  Her outermost cloak, a gray trench coat was secured with a tightly wrapped knotted cloth belt.  The coat was thoroughly soiled by a life of sleeping rough in the urban outback.  The fabric boasted a consistency worthy of an Abercrombie and Fitch oil finished coat.  The bulky layers rounded the frame of her shoulders.  She resembled a small granite headstone.

"Whats your name?" I asked.  She was reluctant to tell us.  “I don’t like my name”.

We gently coaxed her.

“Carmen” she whispered.

“That's a beautiful name.  Its the name of the most beautiful operas ever written.”

“I know.  I’m gonna change my name someday.” she answered.  “I never liked it.”

Ally finished taking the survey, leaving more questions unresolved than answered.  

We gave Carmen a blanket, gloves, a hat.  Some hot cocoa, two sandwiches and a chocolate bar. We implored her to visit our pantry when it opened in the morning for cloths, referrals and food.  She was very grateful; but I don’t think she’ll ever make her way there.

I gave her my phone number; but I don’t think she’ll call.

“You are not forgotten beloved.  You are deeply loved.  Please remember that.” I said cupping her calloused hands within my palms.

“I know” the dainty caged bird cooed with a submissive smile.  

“What time is it?”

As we left Carmen, I wondered how to count a person wishing to remain invisible.

Music Selection: Bizet’s Carmen, Habanera

Maya Angelou: I Know Why a Caged Bird Sings

Paterson
1/30/13
jbm

At night I like to rest my fingertips on the protruding hipbone that is still covered by a fleshy layer of cushion. Of fat.
Why do we shy away from that description so often?
Fat.
Those three letters haunted me more than anything for the past 7 years, and I would hear it all too often.
And when I didn't hear it, I'd see it in their eyes.
I was not like the rest of them.
No Abercrombie for this pudgy middle schooler, and no eating candy unless I wanted to be ridiculed and stereotyped.
But not until my senior year of high school did it finally get to me.
I stopped eating. One almond at most and nothing else.
Fat.
Fat.
Disgusting.
Shameful.
Ugly.
All synonymous in my head.
Now it's completely different.
I embrace my beautiful body.
Every curve, every scar, every red engrained stretch mark.
I wear them with pride.
I take off my shirt for my lovers without fear or shame.
My body is bigger than societies idealistic and impossible standards of beauty...
And thank
God
For
That.

what am I...
if the mere color of my skin
smears fear, suspicion and dread
in the heads of perfect strangers...?

what am I...
if I feel the need to
recede to a sanctuary within  
my very own black skin
allowing the familiar stranger
sharing the elevator
to exhale
and set  her bundle of apprehension,
perceived and imagined,
aside
for the ride...?

what am I...
if I instinctively
hide my black eyes
in the screens
of iphones and ipads
avoiding icontact when isolated
with nervous strangers
lest I inflate the balloon of anxiety
to panicked proportions....?

creating that space of comfort
for all nervous strangers in my life
becomes my obsession...

and I switch lanes
by night
crossing to the other side
of  streets with dim lights
lest I collide head-on
with trepidation personified
in the eyes of perfect strangers...

and I ditch the hoodie
for a crew neck sweater
by abercrombie and fitch
lest some slug with a 9mm gun
profile me as a ****
and defy order, rhyme and reason
to exercise his license to ****
in the still of a rainy night in florida
with no credible witness
in sight...

what am I...?

~ P
(7/18/2013)

Senior year filled with bliss
Senior year full of lists
life lessons we've all learned
no Qur'an to be burned

acceptance and tolerance is taught
things we ought not do
and things we ought to

skipping classes oh what fun
getting lots of essays
never done enough
We've all got pretty tough
after four years time
spent on
homework
friends
experiencing life
is defiantly sublime

getting ready for the future
yet we still cant see the whole **** picture
kind of nervous
kind of scared
at the end of the year
when we'll really see who really cared
to be true friends til the bitter end
through all our ups and all our downs
clean out the friend list
get ready for the plunge

each day is another last
memories we shall forget
names that used to have purpose
are now found meaningless

find a purpose
find a place
society dictates
this is our anthem
that although times are bad
working is all you have

each election getting meaner
every day a little harder
HOPE MY ***
this is all a clever lie

high school teaches us so much
yet none is remembered
none is obtained
vague concepts taught to the blind masses
When will the people learn?

To STAND UP
Stand up against corruption
and illegal government spending-WHOOPS
guess that was left outta the text books

Stay civil
stay sane
Follow the "American culture"
Eat fat
stay thin
this is hypocrisy we now live in

Vote for Republican
Vote for Democrat
doesn't matter in the end
they are the same
Abercrombie and Fitch
VS
Hollister
Same brand
different label

Don't you see?
Can't you see?
This hypocrisy....
is real
as real
as you
or Me

End of line

Sometimes I would walk through the halls,
feeling nothing but anxiety.
My mind would become flooded:
What should I be doing…
what should I be saying...
what is everyone thinking?

See-
I used to float to the back of the room
to the back of my mind where
I escaped the world by reading.
Nerdy.
A loser. A freak.
I was too intelligent for my age.
It wasn’t COOL to get straight A’s.

Then I advanced to the seventh grade,
with no idea my life was about to change.
I made a friend.
Then Two. Then Three.
A former unknown concept: “popularity”.

Skater shoes, with laces you didn’t tie,
pink backpacks, hair straight as a pin-
Abercrombie-
led me to a moment I still hate today:
“Try some of this”.
It wasn’t COOL if you said no.

It was my first taste of intoxication,
my first taste of escape-
escape of my mind, the thoughts,
The anxiety.
The more I sipped, the more I let go.

The drinks would become stronger,
we raged every other night.
Tolerances were creeping up high,
control started waving goodbye to my mind.
It wasn’t COOL to be sober.

We laughed, we kid-
called ourselves “alcoholics”.
If only then I knew more, and the future I would soon endure
because of the potion we poured and poured.
It wasn’t COOL to be a lightweight.

Some years later I bragged and I boasted,
over the amount of liquor I could intake.
“The only girl who could outdrink the boys”-
the girl, I’d someday unrelated.
She’d fallen for everything society had wanted to create.
“Popularity”.

Then came the day I knew would eventually arrive-
the day of realization and what it meant to be alive.
I no longer wanted to be COOL.

Because with each drink, the value of life was swallowed-
I never have felt
quite that hollow. As if
all the knowledge that once filled my mind
vanished.

I yearned for nothing but to go back to the days,
when I was uncool
and got
straight A’s.

The greatest mistake we make is teaching our children that monsters are not real
They are, but not in the way we imagine them
They do not hide under our beds
Do not even look like what we've been taught was evil, can't even see what is lurking
Inside of their heads
Movie villains are easily spotted in all black, ***** and cackling
The things that hide in the dark are not demons
I know
You're not a monster, you're a human just like me
Easy to pity because we both cry and bleed
You are not a monster
But you have seeped into my veins like poison
It does not matter who I am with
You will rise like the ocean and swallow me until I can't breathe
Wrapped in the arms of a lover
I freeze
His hands are not his hands his teeth are not his teeth
They are the hunters
They are yours
I know you're nothing but a ghost now
It's only the shadows of memory that seize me
But i'm back in that room and the door is locked
And I am locked and I am trapped
by hungry stares and greedy hands
Prowling like a lion and I am the prey tonight
Shouldn't have let the wolf inside
But you were dressed as my friend in an Abercrombie shirt and Hollister jeans offering what I thought was a comforting hand
But I am locked in your claws and they tear through my clothes
So I use the only defense left to me
The last resort mother nature provides
I play dead
Hoping my frozen body will somehow deter you
Turned off every light in myself one by one
The city in a power outage
Stepped out of my body like a ghost
Cold and unknowing
Hide from myself the way you cover a small child's eyes
so they wont see the ******
But pretending not to see it will not save you
Warning signs are there for a reason
Trigger warning trigger warning
I ignored all of the flashing signs
Why would I guard myself against someone I claimed to be like a brother?
Blind-sighted
Thrown off the cliff and your arms drag me down like an anchor
I am already dead
Wishing I could drown not even bothering to hold my breath
Your smile used to be so inviting but now your eyes are loaded guns and your teeth are like knives waiting to tear me to shreds
And I cannot run and I cannot hide
My body is mine my body is mine my body is mine
I know that he is not you
But you could be anyone
And in a way you already are
Because 77% of rapes are committed by someone the victim knows
And in a survey of college men 51% said that they would **** a woman if they knew they would not be caught
All the voices are yours
Telling me that I must have wanted it, because "Look at what i'm wearing."
Every shadow following me
Still hunting me as I walk to my car at night
Always prey as I look behind my shoulder every two seconds like a twitch
And I run so I can get there before you do
Every time
Before you can climb in like you did before
"No" was a word you could not comprehend, could not understand
But if dogs can learn it and listen then so can you
You were not entitled to enter my car, my house, my bed or my body and especially not my soul
I do not desire your attempts at worship
Will not let you take off my pants so you can
"Make me feel like a real woman"
I am fire burning every place your hands have touched
My body is not a piece of meat to be sacrificed on an altar
Not yours for the taking
I am a temple, a sanctuary
And you are not my God.

I am motherless.
She sits on the hutch in our dining room, in a ceramic urn.
Watching her fall has made me rise
I will be her polar opposite.
Her failure is my success.
I was numb to her death,
Like watching through one-way glass,
My heart feeling no pain, no loss.
Just relief.
I am safe now.

I am a muzzle.
I keep my feelings and frustrations to myself,
Bottled like colored sand and shells.
They rest on the tip of my tongue sometimes,
Rehearsed words to finally say what I mean.
But every time I talk myself down,
And push the words back down,
Fingers thrusting cork underwater.
From time to time I wish to shed a skin of attentiveness,
To take the words for what they are, rather than how they’re said.

I am a dream drawer
With broad strokes of man-made nostalgia I paint
A colonial home,
On a tree lined street,
A square front yard,
A big oak tree,
Green grass and a wraparound porch.
Inside,
There are varnished floors,
Built-in bookcases,
An Ikea kitchen,
And a Pottery Barn living room.
The kids wear Abercrombie,
The school bus stops at our front door,
and I am a mother for my children and for myself.

I am a street photographer.
Windows are my viewfinders,
showing a moment of life inside of a house. Click.
I am fascinated by the insides of a home.
I wish I could stop time and walk inside,
To see what’s behind that glass photograph.

I am a poet.
My dreams and desires,
My feelings and frustrations,
Are not spoken, but written.
I cannot just “turn on” my poetry,
I need something to speak to me,
Like my toes in a backyard pool during twilight,
Or a restless night.
They whisper at me,
Cast me meaningful glances.

I am a miner,
Searching for diamonds in a harmony,
Where I just have to close my eyes,
Smile, and be swallowed by the whale of melody and drums.
I am Jonah,
Wrapped in a musical hurricane,
I am surrounded and forced to forget
Everything but what I’m hearing.

i haven't fallen in love with someone in such a long time
i'm pretty sure if the abercrombie and fitch of cowtown usa confessed his life long love for me right now
i'd tell him to *******.

my sister is gushing her way through a romantic comedy romance
with some hot criminal justice major
and i'm happy to proffer advice
and cluck sympathetically
and oo and aww at the right moment
but my lack of drive to have something similar for myself
is slightly disconcerting

i worry that if i ever do have someone that means something to me
i'll have to explain to to them about my family
why i don't talk to my mom
why my little brothers and sisters can't see my dad
why my body is covered in scars
why i'm such a ****** up clown girl
and to be honest
i feel as if i don't have the ******* energy
to lay everything bear
to a potentially back-stabbing ******* human being

i've learned that everyone has that potential
my own mother tore me to pieces in front of a court of law
if the woman who gave birth to you
and claimed to love you for 18 years
can turn into a monster
so quickly
so can anyone else
and that is why i don't love people
like i say i do
because somewhere i know that they'll **** me over
they're human,
it's what they do

little clown girl,
sit on your dusty shelf
until it's empty
and you have it to yourself
i don't need any other accent
i just need space
and a knife

It’s hard to say when it exactly happened.                        Man, what a boring day. Sitting here for at

There she was minding her own business                         least twenty minutes and she still hasn’t

and here I am foolishly falling in love with                        shown up. I’m starving too. At least the

her. It’s tough to say what really appealed                        weather’s nice here. The leaves are finally

to me about her. She just had a sort of                        changing and it looks like it might rain.

quality about her, just sitting on that                         Poetic. Prime people watching weather.

bench in a nonchalant fashion. Maybe her                        All of them going about their lives, for the

apathy appealed to me. Wouldn’t that be                         most part unconcerned with each other.

ironic, a lack of interest striking my own.                        It’s hard to not feel lonely when people

No, no, it had to be something else.                          prefer Facebook to real conversation.

I had the pleasure of watching her as I                         No body seems to be taking the sidewalk I

walked pass the bench. She seemed                         took today. Everyone’s just ambling along

content to just sit there waiting for                         the path along the street. There’s little

something. Maybe she was waiting for a                         traffic today too. It’s hard to make out

friend to meet her there or perhaps she                         anyone at this distance. There’s just one

was tired and wanted to take a quick rest.              boy walking past. He’s pretty average

She didn’t look at me directly, much to my             looking, nothing special really. Still I’d

disappointed relief. She was certainly                         take that over your typical Abercrombie

pretty. Not a model of perfection by the                         Frat-boy any day, though I’m pretty sure

social standard, but social opinion *****.                         they think the same for me. To hell with

She wasn’t bound by such superficialities                         them. He has dark brown hair, but it looks          

as social vanity. I wish more people were                         almost jet black with the rain clouds in

so. Her eyes were dark blue though they                         the sky. I wonder where he’s going. He

looked a tad gray on this cloudy day. It                         doesn’t seem to be in much of a hurry.

looked like it might rain.                                                Maybe he doesn’t care about getting wet.

She had brown hair cut shorter than most             He just pasts me and I really got a good

and her clothes didn’t look like they came                         look at him without looking. A plaid

from a mall. Blue jeans and brown boots                         button up with blue jeans. Carrying a

too. Not bad, not bad at all. She had a bag                         brown backpack, most likely filled with

with her, which was set down right beside             texts and other class stuff. He stops to

her. She was checking her phone and I’m                         check his phone. Maybe his girlfriend

walking past burping up butterflies. I                         texted him or his mom’s seeing how he’s

walked past her like a sleepy morning                         doing. I’d say he’s a sophomore but he

before Sunday church and stopped. I                         could be older. Judging from his look I’d

pulled out my phone, can’t have me                         say no one important. Two more

looking too awkward just standing there,                         freshmen loudly walk on by talking about

and pretended to check my text messages                         how much they hate some class they’re in.

as a pair of freshmen walked by. I had to                         Mmm, there’s my friend walking down

at least verbally confirm my existence to                         the street. Now I can finally go get some

her. I put my phone away and did a quick                         food. That boy is still texting; maybe it is

about haste.                                                           ­             his girlfriend. Too bad

She was gone.                                                            ­            He was cute

The smell of Abercrombie cologne, apple orchard candles and spearmint gum always bring you back

Some nights I lay and stare at the walls hoping you heard that song on the way home from work and your eyes teared up

The taste of mtn dew and orange chicken bring your face to my thoughts

Most days I dream about your gentle loving touch
Your soft cold fingers gliding down my arms and back
The thought gives me chills

I hope you think of me
And the priceless laughs we shared

My mind will always run back to you
You're all I've ever loved

I've been ambling dead like a zombie
Distressed; not classy like Abercrombie;
Can't get the words out
Like a ketchup bottle needs a clout
I need a hit from my crack pipe
She had the best drugs not a hype,
But after all the therapy sessions
And the endless tears and confessions
I no longer am easily sedated
By an ounce or a pint; the effect belated
Is no where near what it used to be
When it was everyday a dose of she;
But she stayed out of reach
Like a cookie jar hidden sealed from breach
Or intrusion and my system shut down
I couldn't even laugh at a ****** ******* clown
The heat slowly dissipating from my body
Her toxins seeped out my system leaving a shody
Shamble of bones and a dull luster on my eyes,
I returned to the life I led before her; full of lies;
But I'm getting up getting out getting going,
She's back again; my narcotic supply is flowing;
I feel the slow drip drip of the IV trickle
Within me a good warm feeling; no longer fickle
I'm no longer in a sinking trodden ship
Joy is in my fingertips as I'm back on her radar glowing blip...
© okpoet

Back on the jubilee
an Italian sat next to me
and next to her
a lookalike looking like Cher.

Open and close
doors do that
I suppose
and
some people do it too.

Sunlight filters in
past the grime
we're living in
and?

And is good to have at hand
when you're hanging on by a
thread.

Windmills
not dragons,

but I understand how
easily mistaken one can be
when you only see what
you want to see.

I get more time on here
more things to do
I could be a windmill too.

Underground now or is that
yet to be?

We combat mortality in an effort
to live on,
but we'll all be gone when the time
comes.

Bluetooth's detected me
connected me
with
Abercrombie and his iPhone,
why?
he's a stranger to me although
it might be a she
still a stranger though.

Canada Water
near water but not Canada
unless you count the geese.

I wonder sometimes
does a termination code
come
before the chicken crosses
the road?

Yesterday lingers in the ventilation shaft,
the smell of excess.

I'm older by twenty seven feet under London If that's possible
it might even be deeper.
I might even be older

when I
but then I
wonder again why
Abercrombie?

My little sister had become an entitled *****. Her thirteenth year had brought terror on us all. I can't really complain, however; I had been the same way at thirteen and fourteen. It's funny how I act like I'm so much older and more mature now. At almost fourteen, I was having *** and sneaking around and I'm still doing that. However, I was in the god-awful scene phase of my life, not that we haven't all been there with the clip-in colorful extensions and the emo band tees. My sister is in the slutty Hollister model phase of her life. I feel like we all go through on or the other, or if you're lucky enough you go through both. My body type was always bustier and hippier than any Abercrombie model that I had ever seen.

My dad and I had always **** heads. It flares up when my mom isn't around to be the peacemaker. Even when she is home, we still argue frequently, and we take a lot of low blows at each other. Yet he also expects me to be perfect. He's always been on my case about my weight, my friends, my clothes, my hair, my personality...I can barely breathe around him.  Nothing I do is good enough for him and frankly, I've stopped trying to please him.

And me? Well, I'm just the black sheep, the dark horse, the family **** up. The **** up who isn't all that smart, in school or in life. The **** up who can't lose weight, and who takes the heat for the fact that majority of her family is overweight. The **** up who gets blamed for confrontation she gets into with her sister. The **** up who can't play sports and is just plain clumsy. The **** up who can carry a pitch, but will never be a star. The **** up who can't cook, dress or act right. The **** up who will never honor her family. The **** up who's always been subpar in every area of life. The **** up who has nothing to offer the world.

The widowed lips of a smile long dead,
She falls back with her legs pre-spread,
Eyelids half open, an empty grave of feeling,
Her personality reflected by the ceiling,
The mirror inverting Fitch & Abercrombie,
In a supermarket siege - she'd be a zombie,
An abandoned hatchback on the hard shoulder of life
She'd make a corpse a lovely wife.

All eyes widely stare
At Abercrombie models,
Them beautiful boys.