I cried at the breakfast table this morning
my father carefully explained,
"wives must be submissive to their husbands"
"housecleaning is the domain of the woman"
"God created woman because man asked for a partner"

This past semester I wrote two papers

One, a fire and brimstone sermon
          I quoted Anais Nin
          sending the creators of sexist commercials to eternal suffering
          "**** them!" I said. "May they burn in hell."
          For the women they portrayed were doormats
          Misconceptions
          Monsters

The other, the role of women in the 1920s,
           No longer confined to the kitchen
           they dropped ballots with their new freedom
           they wore short dresses and short tresses
           fingers wrapped around cigs
           they quoted Wilde instead of Alcott
           they danced until their feet hurt
       
I read of Anais Nin's "new woman,"
her partnership, not submission to man,

I craved a room of my own, neigh demanded it
For sheep stayed in the kitchen,
The Woolf had a study.

I read poetry
Sexton,
Plath,
I wept for their starved, depressed selves
caged, suffocating inside the clasped hands of a man.
Loved like rib-cage jails.

Adrienne Rich made me angry,
her daughter-in-law
forever trying to fit into a box
she was always too big for, spilling
at the edges, her shaved
legs like "white mammoth tusks"

I was finally
happy with my womanhood.

******, ******, *****, *******
they are mine.
******* free to move unrestrained,
jiggling under my shirt.
Wetness between my thighs.
Menstrual blood,
they are mine.

mine.

I am not ashamed of what I am
because there is no shame.

I am woman,
I am girl,
I am lady.
I am a creature
with a voice
a mind.

a creature who endured much abuse,
continue to endure.

I am woman

and I don't have to be wife or mother
unless I want to be.
I was not created for man;
I was created for the same reason he was,
to serve the same great purpose on this tiny blue dot.

I am not rib.

I am ******, ******, *****, *******
******* free, unrestrained,
Wetness between my thighs.
Menstrual blood,

I am a per.
I am a wo.
I am a hu.

Man and son need to back down,
collaborate not dominate,
speak not command,

for when less are forced into silence,
the maddening scream
hidden inside skin and bones and muscle-meat
becomes song.

this world of car horns and tire screeches
crying and wailing from raw throats
angry protests of indignation

could use a little music.

Infidel and traitors to Christ!

Dreaming of a utopia with Pope Frank
and the devil.
Mocking individualism,
and parading around with indians
for liberation.

You don’t make sense.

Organized religion now dead;
due to your deeds to now.

Idealists still not satisfied in hell.

New thought, new thought, new thought.
Here is another one, tired of the same ole one.

Divine science.

Look for the self & God
Do you see it?

Hail Nathaniel Hawthorne
And Edgar Allan Poe!

© S. Wesley Mcgranor

I used to think we were the Little Women

Louisa May Alcott wrote about

Meg was the oldest, responsible and kind

Jo was the middle child, passionate and determined

And I was Amy, stubborn and young.

Now I see each sister in myself and in them.

My eldest sister has the drive and intelligence of Jo and her independence, yet the softness of Meg, the soul of Beth. But the beauty of Amy.

The middle sibling, is a romantic like Meg and fiery like Amy, she always knew what she wanted. Like Jo she never gave up and chose what was right for her. Like Beth she finds solace in her home.

And myself..

I still bear the bluntness of Amy, her stubborn realism. But my writing is of Jo’s spirit, free and adventurous, words dancing across the page. I love like Meg does and strive to be like Beth, she appears in my homeliness.

We may not be the girls Alcott wrote of but our stories live on in my script. Our childhood selves saved away in the corners of my mind, waiting to appear on a page, preserved.

One day I’ll write us, our story, our lives


But to me we’ll always be my

Little Women.

Dedication:

Nectare bred of an artist's haught testament—
        brings only stunted buds of tastelessness.
Be it naught for the height in numerous tidal of Muse—
        to cause the strike of warmth in bruise.

Upon the cheeks shadow'd in might—
        strength of amour upon near-sight.
You!—Blossom, are of a frightful power—
        to journey nestled mind of dark tower.

As though a hawk perched higher than the peak—
        of mountainous and controlling streaks,
Colourblind by potent affair lost—
        by centuries of sicken'd fever crossed.

By and by another name, honeyed pursuit—
        yearning that cause a poet becoming mute.
Meagerly, he instead scribes his burning allegory—
        that shall cause a life—eternal fragmentary.


Dangers of Kimberleigh

“Love Jo all your days, if you choose, but don't let it spoil you, for it's wicked to throw away so many good gifts because you can't have the one you want.”
― Louisa May Alcott, "Little Women"

I.

When the morning demands you and I—
        our ghosts shall pass empty resides,
Against fields where lines opposing light, force and bind—
        of Angel's breath and Dæmon's spine.

Of shrieks louder than their first meeting's kiss—
        residing now—perfection upon midnight's bliss,
Abiding near the tender gardens upon the blinding dark—
        creating haste of love-song made by grave Skylark.

Who in joyous play—should cause collapse—
        towards serene, augmented lapse.
Lapse of falling, of where gentle screams—
        of every child that's ever been,

Who stroke themselves against empty glass—
        and where visions pray upon the grasp,
Of wind—Of blinding—Of melody—
        to hold faint—Immortality.


II.

This shall be where morning seeks—
        no longer calming of beauty's cheek.
Instead to lash with vain and hostile mount—
        crimson over dashed and harsh doubt.

Until image engraved by forgiving rite—
        speaking neglect of fiend or fiendish blight.
In-versed—coole angelic heart to passéd—
        passage beside Lilac's memory in mortal castéd.

In the unwashed Earth, where the unwashed play—
        'till they unfairly capture it from younglings— Away.
Lonesomeness of watchtowers in gossamer's breast—
        when airy words strangled from bless.
  
Reachéd by the hand—abide in fable—
        quiet tho—in fruitation, a single silver Maple.
Shyly envisioned inside salvation's solitude—
        where tenderness drowns tenderéd concludes.


III.

The sister was lovely—inside my sight—
        in our union—created Nature's first night.
Through our throats rendered fragile lullaby—
        which slaughtered silence and made soldiers cry.

Her bristles—exploit in darkness—I could not see—
        or merely recollect in memory.
A mouth moving inside of mine—
        creatures in mawkery of untouched divine.

Eyes whom beatéd harder than the breeze—
        to remind me—gently of the ease.
Of being caught in cognitive stance.
        which leaves surrender to in traditional, disciplined dance.

Upon the backs of universal forestry—
        and inside their stomachs to where we would meet.
Offended to death by requiem—
        made inside our faint dream's drum.


IV.

Where dreamer's would lash upon in endless screams—
        innumerable Rubies ruin'd before their first gleam.
Upon reflection in lover's loss—
        diminished to demise before their first gloss.

It is upon the fool's finest end—
        where lies his fantasy—condemned.
The jester who remains as undefeat—
        before death shall cause lackluster's retreat.

Unaware tho, in current mode—
        as body by body closely will hold.
And messages of Gold conspire in streaks—
        immersed—affection in mind eternally correlates oblique.

Ringing and humming throughout what laid—
        against blonde grass from Sin was made.
Refraction's cast that betrayed—to promise me—
        endless nights of haunting harmonies.


V.

Held tightly in grieving bourne—
        broken—in new blood is sworn.
Across the snow-cover'd Evergreens—
        where the temptress grave is left unseen.

Not upon her kiss—did darkness fall—
        alone—in shining pieces did crawl,
Against creator—and thus creator hence—
        bitter loving shrouded by bare defense.

As her finite skin had laid eternal flesh—
        of what laid inside Pine's parting mesh.
Holding and crying out for uncertainty—
       feelings moaned into sudden Mercenaries.

Morose and fledgling in their stand—
        spiritéd to Death's light misunderstand,
Of peerless eyes and broken brooks by the sea—
        casting ruined cloth over our Evergreens.


VI.

Unfurnished dawn may scour for length of furnished night—
        quick—until mirroréd ebbed ocean does wrong.
To consume the idles of Man's afraid mind—
        fairest—lest His idles struck into divine.

Exclaiméd none tho, in archaic lust—
        deceased—firmest in high robust.
Where pleasure finds comforted pause—
        inside arched-back in neglected cause.

Betray the shallow grimace flee—
        and ethereal composed by the breeze.
Lies delicate delusion before sorrow—
        that shall thieve away the Artist's morrow.

And in thievery is where the Angels lie—
        angelic beasts with unlawful guise,
In courts—castrated by the throat—
        hardened in assumption by blackened elope.

This is for a girl whose name means light,
Who fights every day of her life to beat the gravity of depression,
Whose dearest pastime is turning everyone she encounters to poetry,
Who’s never stopped looking for fairies or shaking glitter over everything,
Who is tall in the flesh and tall in the heart; love overflowing,
Who aspires to be ironclad but always tender,
Who knows too much about bruised innocence and precious things ripped away,
Who can never get enough of walks in the wind and rain—all of that pulsing sensation, all of that alive-alive-alive,
Who salutes Eve each time her teeth break the skin of an apple,
Who is thoroughly in love,
Who has taught herself to bleed out with dignity,
Whose defiance could halt the turn of the earth,
Who grew up on bare feet, free will, and the softest joy imaginable,
Who would die for justice,
Whose soul is warm and messy and unfurling,
Who has a family of artists living in her head [Alcott scribbling in the cerebral cortex, Van Gogh mixing pigments near the frontal lobe, Ginsberg clacking at his typewriter beside the cerebellum],
Who dreams of avenging the marginalized,
Whose arsenal includes sturdy black boots and neon strength,
Who is ruthless yet sentimental beyond belief,
Who slipped into the world with a sweetness she’s never really lost,
Who lives like she writes like she laughs like she argues like she loves, with heat and certainty and unending vibrance.
This is for myself.

From behind the hatch,
he could hear the groans
and moans
and screams
and cries
of all his former brides.
The wind whistled
through their throats
across bones
and rotting meat
that sounded much like
bare feet being dragged across tile.
But he was safe on the other side of the glass.
In the mausoleum, he could read in peace.
The undead books beckoning
a man burnt from the inside out
to unhinge their fettered spines
and **** ancient dust into his lungs.
But no male authors had left a page in this grave.
Austin to Alcott in the north.
Wilder to Wollstonecraft in the south.
The likeness of Hera sat on the hearth,
beside some red roses.
He had bought them for his funeral.
And against the east wall,
a shadow hung like Fall in December
cried every night at five.
All he had to do was lift her veil
to light the sky again.
She held the key in her mouth
but he wouldn't know.
Instead of leaving his home
with her hand in his
and exchanging pocket change
for a ticket to the west,
he licked his thumb
and turned the page
to find the remains
of a lizard.
He drank the ocean of his eyes that night
and wished again, like he always did
he had kissed someone at five.
But tonight was unlike any before.
He mumbled nursery rhymes as he paced the floor.
And while sleep hid from him behind the moon,
his True Love left the womb to join the others outside.

Murmurs of French
must have blanketed the great–
cocooning 'round Salinger,
lilting for Whitman–

flitting by Carroll and
flirting with Eliot,
sighing on Plato,
marching in Chaucer,
nuzzling up Dickinson,
lying with Hemingway,
giggling to Alcott and
gasping at Plath.

Murmurs of French
must have borne their babe souls,
gifting them music
instead of dry words.

Murmurs of French,
the language of beauty,
just buzz past my ears
'fore I swat them away.
It is fitting, I think,
that my tongue should collapse
upon trying merci
or a bon appétit,

and the lone French I can muster
is notably stolen
from the notoriety of
a Madame Marmalade.

I am now 38.
Justice shouldn't be a courthouse debate.
We shouldn't have to wait.
To be successful to feel great.
Never will I ever forgive who I hate.
Hopefully I will get married before forty.
I have no self pity or a complex of "poor me".
A truth you can feel but not see.
The old lady filed a restraining order against me.
To keep me from my only family my baby.
The custody case dragged on a year & a half until never replaced maybe.
She kidnapped my child.
Portrayed me as mental & wild.
The Madge Bradley Building mediator Georgia Mansury didn't believe my story in 2006 when she took my daughter away from me & gave her to my mom.
The family courthouse should blow up like a bomb.
I know I am in her best interest.
Ariel's mom she had missed.
The town of North Clairemont in San Diego.
A place friends never go.
We went to Alcott Elementary school.
Laws can't protect the ****** from rules.
We lived at 3266 Idlewild Way.
A place I am glad we no longer stay.
True story the police said it was a low priority case.
The future can't make the past erase.
I called them 20 years later.
So the reason my mom & why I hate her.
So I hung up & said "nevermind".
Somewhere evil still exists in this place & time.
They said it would take a really long time.
A nightmare of mine.
When I was 12 & my sister was nine.
We got ***** 365 times times 4.
A stranger showed up at our door.
He had a metallic blue helmet & motorcycle.
He got us bicycles.
She never had a clue.
His execution is long overdue.
My mom moved in a pedofile.
To live with us 3 or 4 years for awhile.
I think he had been on Americas Most Wanted for escaping from a correctional facility.
Monsters like him don't get any pity.
He said if we told anyone he would **** us.
His felonies were never a bust.
Registered or unregistered.
*** offenders should never get parolled.
They should stay locked up til their dead & old.
In mexico or anywhere else children's *** is not something that should be sold.
I hated my life.
No one ever asked me to be their wife.
She bought him cartons of cigarettes & beer.
My dad she had kicked out that year.
My dad died at 81 in 2009 I told him the truth before.
How a child molestor made us his *****.
He made me carry dead fish from the tank in my hand to the toilet.
It traumatized me bit by bit.
My life has become ****.
He strangled the dog next door with his own leash.
Nobody knew about our grief.
Justice has no relief.
When he went away.
We could go out & play.
After that all new days he hadn't had his way.
My mom told me to touch his **** telling me it was okay that it was just skin.
I never did. I knew it was an illegal sin.
He whipped us with his belt for being late.
I was unsure of my future fate.
Being there was not happy or fun.
My mom bought him a gun.
Where would we go if we had run.
He spit in my cereal is the rest.
He ****** on my toothbrush I detest.
He choked my sister to death.
He ressitated her she told her teacher.
The police never knew to reach her.
1988 our lives got ruined.
The damage is congruent.
1991 was when the **** ended.
Children got sexually offended.

You can be polite. Or you can tell all the Julia’s in the world the things you think about when they’re talking to You.  You could just…  Start. Talking.  It would be delicious and taboo and all that, and maybe a little awkward for all the Julia’s but the mainest thing… It would be impossible to ever. give. a ****. ever. again. You Know This. You Know It Like you Know how many bottles of champagne it takes to even Begin to be enough champagne. This skill is highly prized. And you can DO this. You can do this Sophia. Right here. Right now. You can - tch. You’re not even listening to me, are you?  That is awesome.
    I can see it all now… one, two maybe five Julia’s all yapping away in a Vera **** pincer formation and then….! You open your mouth. The stars fall. The Julia’s are like “ What the-? “ and you, Sophia… Drowning the Gallery. Using all the colors you discovered on your expeditions. A Rainbow made of Lions. I can see it. And you can DO this. You can do this Sophia Conasta. Right here. Right now. You can even begin with a… You’re not even listening to me, are you? My God! you’re beautiful.
Like a bomb that uses a fork because ground zero was no place be Un-Civilized. In fact. Ground Zero wasn’t even a Place until you got there. And let your Self, drop! I mean to say…. You can be polite. Or. You can be Sophia being sophia. period. There’s a lot of tuxedos at this Event, have you noticed that? When did they come back? And why lord! do they all look terrible?
    How long have I been gone? What the hell is Julia talking about now? That’s Leonard Maxwell and his assistant, April Alcott.  She burns money to watch it burn-Ironically, but she’s not sure if she’s doing it right because if it Meant Anything in the first place, she would be first to have no clue what it meant. So now she nails it, but never gets a prize. She bought a lot of my dark stuff from 5 yrs ago that paid for the flat in Portland. What the hell is she wearing? A rhinestone baby Jesus tongue stud? I love these parties. I hate these parties. I’m Sophia Conasta. Celebrated Artist whose Body of Work has astonished the Hoi Polloi of the Art World, and totally lost right now.
     What is Julia’s problem? Did she lose a Horse? Again? Somehow?Or Something? Open Bars Are Go! I’ll just weave my way over to the Gayest Cabal and Julia will be scraped off like a Barnacle* By GUCCI, and then I’ll be clearly Minus One Julia. That can only be a good thing. And - Open Bar. Breathe, Drink
Genius.

.

A windswept chill cuts to the bone
Wave and whirlwind play upon each other
With determined gait, I walk to Author’s Ridge
Syncopated volleys of half frozen drops
Released from the heavens
For are we not in the company of the enlightened
Resting peacefully; Alcott, Emerson, Hawthorne, and Thoreau
I take breaths of frigid Concord air
And fill my lungs with hopes of inspiration
But fallow is my spirit
And then,
Trickling drops of frozen rain, finds a path down my naked neck
And there is planted a seed
And a poem
At Author’s Ridge

To tell the truth, I am a huge book nerd. Or so I’ve heard. Ever since I was eight I have been reading Dickens and Alcott and Fitzgerald, Melville and Steinbeck and Bronte.
In the early months of my nines, I could be found in the closet, eyes scrunched hard and every muscle in my body straining. This was after I had read the Narnia series for the first time and tried to reach the Dancing Lawn, wanting to waltz with a prince and play chess with a dame. I would put on a flowy skirt and hobble around in my mom's wedding heels, pretending to be a Victorian lady. My shoulders back and neck held painfully high, I still have never felt more  confident. So weightless.
The relationships I made with Holden, my always childish best friend, Moby ****, my pet whale who barely fit in the bathtub, and Jo March, the spiteful young woman who taught me how to write freely, built me to a place I thought unattainable. Occasionally, the words would fly over my head, leaving a slight breeze of understanding to push back my curls, but the confusion was alright with me as long as I could immerse myself in the world that the current characters lived in. And sometimes even these worlds seemed so horrid that I couldn't imagine the lives that would have been lived in them, my largest difficulty being a scraped knee or a paper cut from my latest read. The characters that I had thought of as beautiful and honest were truly insensitive and materialistic (speaking of one particular Amy March).
Although I may be a book nerd, the books that I have read have allowed me to look into the true nature of the people around me, their values and their motives, and the state of the world around me, whether it is lying in shambles or standing amidst the distant stars.
Written works have this odd power, maybe a little too much for such subtle things, where they can touch the edge of what we thought we knew and turn it upside down. And that, in short, is why I love reading so much. So, yes, I am a book nerd and, maybe, so are you.

It's me, the two week old puppy licking your face, wagging my tail, jumping all over you; simply because you're you.
I'm the best qualities your Grandpa expounded, all of the details he shared with you that were important before he died.
I'm all of the hearts drawn on the outside of the diary you hold close to your breast for fear of losing.
I'm your **** Adonis, though I don't have dimples, and I have a four pack at best, instead of the six visible quadrants of abs.
I'm the red wine you sip and savor while you're relaxing on Sunday afternoon reading Louisa May Alcott.
I'm the ready apology waiting when I've made a mistake or inadvertently hurt your feelings.
I'm the lingering scent of POLO that wafts through your mind when we are apart from each other, and the chill on your skin as you remember my touch.
I'm the joy spread across your smile when you laugh out loud, the butterfly that lights upon your fingers and not fly away.
I'm the diamonds encrusted tennis bracelet you weren't expecting, just because.
I'm the tears rolling down your face when you are sad, and the punchline of the joke used to cheer you up.
I'm the slight stare across the room at the event because I can't stop thinking about you.
I'm every droplet of hot water that showers you, envelops you, and caresses you.
I'm the fast beating heart when we kiss, and the giddy child when we hold hands.
I'm the soul that slow dances with yours when we make love and hold each other in afterglow.
I'm the Thankful!
I'm the Blessed and Lucky one.

-----ChawzzyScript

I'm naked underneath these clothes I wear
I'm cold and in need of a blanket
I walked down the street to where I was grown
saw the Mickey Mouse Rock & Louisa May Alcott stone
I stood on the porch where once I smoked some grass
reflected on my past

at a clear glance the pillow where I masturbated with
*** is not love its a lie from Satan
mother making breakfast frying the bacon
listening to Steve Miller & I was late for dinner
little frogs little girls with hairs in curls
making forts in the woods
poison ivy up to no good

Beer caps the trace of Goldi Locks
ice cream man while working on my tan
little voices with brand new choices
the bargain basement blues not to mention Huey Lewis & The News
standing tall at the mall with beer can in hand by the graveyard
stop at G-Fox stuck elevator making out with my girl
hearts unfurled the struggle of the heart

acne and those hair cut blues
shaped through my dreams my pretty child choose the day the night is far too spent
throwing an M-80 under a garbage can hood up to no good
little pizzas the Yankees watching little House On The Prairie
high school dances with new romances flirting with fire
gym shorts squirt of *** on the side wanted to run away to hide
the hallways the door bell rings someone holding my wedding ring

cold pizza on Saturdays blues
got a brand new pair of shoes
cold hearts that bleed
he was caring for my every need
one heart to cling
the fat lady sings