If you're really good I might let you see them, that is, if I can find the pointy-toed knitted pink preemie booties some coworker's wife gave my parents....




(sonnet #MMMMMMCXX)


Suppose I'm but a nymph whose sprite in frail
Excuse wars, tangled by long cherished thence
Auld loves, and sorrows which I canna hence
Shrug off.  My father aye, and brothers hail
Me as so oddly wont to in betrayl
Don effervescence, whiles griefs own my sense
Of whither, glad to see this warm eye whence
These yellowed fields bask, dead, as if'd avail.
I dabble in the thought of Death as twere,
Like twould thus ransom me from here, though blue
Skies whisper to my soul of yonder fer
All that.  Yea, I hate aught, but love each too.
Or praps I hate myself cuz joy is poor
And crimnal, left a prisner, whence I rue.

01Feb17b

i am  not your ******
nor your sister.
i do not know the meaning
of these words, mister.
except
in instances where
i hate us
like
they hate us.

a putrid loathing
sprouting from different
colored grounds
but a dangerous flower
nonetheless.

they are not just words,
they are drops of blood
spilled from the lashed backs
of our enslaved
triple grandfathers
and mothers.

our slang replaces
hoses
pushing us back
during marches
and righteous riots.

aggression
equals regression
equals deppression.

and now,
it's all our fault.
now it's
black on black assault.
now it's
fly shoes and ghetto booties.
poppin' bottles and
poppin' caps,
running through nights like
street ******* rats.

what would
W.E.B. DuBois say if
he'd seen this
backstep taken
after we'd come this far,
after reaching for stars
and dropping
the ball?

now
i love this color.
i love this color
and prefer no other.

all i'm saying is,
let us pick one day
when we put the negroidian away
put ****** back in it's roots.
no, not the movie,
don't me toby.

let us get the dream rollin'
Mister King style,
not Master P style.
no big rims, or leather seats.
none of that ****
for awhile.

i'm saying takeover.
i'm saying african-america makeover.
i'm saying,
let's take
our pride back,
like our
homeland lions.
let us make black
a taste not so sour.

i'm saying,
Black Power.

Five minute street artists
and insomnia mongers.
****** drunk blondes
and finger snapping phat booties.

Street geniuses
bred by Machiavellian philosophies
cypher dreams over tokes
of marijuana smoke.

Color worshipping narcotic traffickers,  
and bread winners
parole corners
sporting fitted caps and twisting fingers.

Senile war veterans
beg for change in cardboard boxes
from the American dreams
they afforded.

Hard workers with every ethnicity
molded into each pore of their face,
rub shoulders with tourists at traffic stops
barely escaping tires crushing their feet.

Sartorial geniuses with no pants
switch hips in knock-off stellos heels,
selling the origin of the world on avenues
next to Arab Halal food.

Cooperate ties and blue collars chafe ***** on subways.
nodding in and out of Daily News articles  
while oxygen blessed by asparagus ****
pump through their noses.

Summa *** laude number runners dictate economies
From sky-crapper offices,
And powered rain swallows their concrete each winter,
With no apologies.

Just feel like the way you're approaching me right now
doesn't reflect the way I'm trying to be perceived
you know?
telling me how **** I am
doesn't make me feel like you see the God in me
or like that's something you wish to see.
Now I don't think there's a problem with being ****
I embrace my femininity wholeheartedly
and **** is just a pretty cool aspect
that I reckon shines a light on what you think are my assets
but please...

See, it's hard for me to take that as a compliment.

Why don't you lead me to believe there's more to YOU than what meets the eye?

and although I know that you're just reflecting the view that has just met your eye oblige me by taking a moment to think before you speak.

Even still
nonetheless
I have a solid idea as to why...
Cause you see these girls on instagram and facebookin their thighs
and *******
and booties
for 300 likes

"**** girl you ****"
"he he thanks, boo! "
don't let that crap lead you to believe I like it too

I feel sorry for that girl
the one who has to use her body to feel accepted in this world
the girl who needs some real love but outside acts sadiddy
not until she sees those likes to finally feel pretty
exposing her surfaces 'cause her insides are...

I digress, when you approach me that way it's not cool
just as you judge me by the things I say, I judge you.
and I feel you,
you probably aren't even looking for all that
you don't care about my God or my mind or my passions
but the least you can do, stranger, is respect my personhood
and get to know me just enough to gauge what might've been my reaction
cause that, "hey ****" is not how I want to be addressed.
there's so much more to this body than what's under my dress
So, blatantly, I'm unimpressed by your ability to state the obvious

I'm tired of dudes looking at me like I'm crazy when I politely say, "I'd rather not be called that."
Like I just dissed a blessin'
Like the woman that always complains that, "men ain't nothin'.''
"I was just trying to pay you a compliment."
Huh? Oh yeah, THAT'S really something.

if you have any interest in me is that the best you can do?
So, yeah, I know right off the bat I'm not the one for you.
It's not my fault your perception has been skewed
that you still haven't been schooled
that this message is just now getting to you
you're part of that world that's still chasing the cool
using the tools that were forged for some girl whose cup isn't full

And again there's nothing wrong with being told that I'm ****
but I'd rather hear it from a man that already gets me
and knows that not just my high heels and my dress me
but the heart in my chest me
and the sound of my voice
my word choice, my corny jokes,
my thirst for spiritual growth, my softened heart toward the weak,
my intellect, my integrity--that's what makes me-me.
that's what makes me
****.
They're one in the same,
And you can't possibly know all that before you know my first name.

Oh the cringing  demon of eternal youth,
******* away promise and hard won truth.
I see far more than ***, lingering, in her eyes
I see, instead, the milk teeth of youthful lies,
of forever and today, hopes and screams
replacing tomorrows, frayed at the seams.

Oh, mere ***, be gone, you sordid troll!
Crawl yourself back in your hole.
If ‘tis *** you brought to this trapped piece of light
then speak to your own soul and leave me a bite
of the apple she does not offer
and the delights you think her youth will proffer.

I have no time to dance to your twisted tune
of youth over too fast and maturity too soon!
What stinks more of your *******;
her stretched, prolonged, aging youth or back bared, partial  ******?

I giggle as I consider her Eve-like dreams
of bitten apples and grander things.
And God said, let there be light.
Is that truly all He said when he banished the night?

Maybe she is wet from being born.
From demon Youth’s desperate grasp she is torn
and into the world, for a moment, she is cashed;
back bared and ready to be lashed
by the ‘cruel’ reality we keep from youth…
…like bronzed, baby booties and baby’s lost tooth.

Maybe, coquettishly, she glances ahead,
away from the bonds of youth’s birthing bed;
not, as you apparently dream, toward some sordid affair
you see in bared skin and strands of dampened hair!

There is beauty in her eyes, it is true,
the beauty of youth’s first, full faced view
of tomorrow and tomorrows again…
Exactly how long do you think, she should remain a youth, then?
Oh the Apple that lingers past ripe upon a tree,
Snakeless, Eve-less, unchosen, unbitten for an eternity.
Shall we trap, virginal, in iron cages of our blind, stupid lust
the false innocence of youth only tears and death can rust?

Foolish, foolish Adam and blind, impregnable Eve; is *** all you can ever see?
I can peer past your layers and layers and layers of false, bitter modesty.
If you see ******* then know this, before you atone:
You bring that demon wherever you go and it is yours and yours alone.

As excited as I am about the end of the semester and Christmas approaching, the bitter cold this week has almost frozen me. Don’t get me wrong, winter is a great time for fashion, but the cold weather is not for me. I would prefer to stay inside with a huge glass of hot chocolate. Aside from cocoa, he secret to staying warm is to dress in layers. I’ve tried to do that with this outfit but I’ve failed a bit.

The majority of this outfit comes from The Yellow Rose, which is a locally owned boutique in my home town. The blanket scarf and shirt are both from the Rose. These boots are from Maurices, but could be swapped for converse or duck boots. The coat is from Aeropostale.

It’s safe to say that I have fallen in love with the blanket scarf. Not only are they adorable, but they also provide ample warmth. They can be worn with nearly anything, including this great shirt. This shirt has a tassel tie underneath the scarf which means it could be worn on it’s own, if you aren’t as big a fan of the blanket scarf.

This jacket is a life-saver to say the least. The reason it works with this outfit so well is because the green in the scarf is the same green on the jacket. Army green goes with just about anything. The sleeves are a sweater material which makes them warmer than normal. You could dress this up a bit which a nice trench coat or long cardigan. You could also change the boots out for black booties or flats.

This outfit is perfect for Christmas parties or Christmas dinners. It has all the traditional Christmas colors and it will keep you warm.

However isn’t only for Christmas. You can easily wear this at any time during the winter.

Hopefully this has given you a bit of holiday wardrobe inspiration. I know holidays can be a stressful time for some, but the outfit you wear should be one thing you don’t have to stress about. Stay warm and stay comfortable.

I hope your break is wonderful and filled with joy. I know we all need that after those finals. I’m sure we’re all ready for present, family time, and much needed sleep. Spread Christmas cheer this year and enjoy the time off. May your Christmas be merry and bright, and don’t forget the Christ in Christmas! He is the only eternal Gift that keeps on giving.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane | www.marieaustralia.com/vintage-formal-dresses

Rocket red robots and tincan screws
Light up the night with sparks,
Which I love.
The workers work and the sleepers,
They sleep forever.

Making rye for the breadwinners,
Making toasty socks for the children,
Making copper caps and wee brass booties,
But won't let them take a wee stroll,
Not in contrary Mary's garden.

The kettleheads squeal and the bronze bucket chests,
They hum with drums in their stomachs,
Candygloss paint trickles onto
The sprockets below with their sharp teeth,
Teeth that creep over the outmodes and candy red.

ol' factory swirling of disinfectant and decay
and the arising sliding vision that brings me to my knees,
presence like you...and you...and
                                                ...you....again.­

                  (      (     (    (   ( (scope) )   )    )     )      )
                (      (     (    (   (  ( (like) )  )   )    )     )      )

a paralysis of fear
        that grips an exhale

                     ...like, serious,

for real, for real.

DJs spinnin' tunes like yarns,
blanketed cocoons
and scoring golden booties.

Divert into another duality,

                - split -

                  (      (     (    (   ( (scope) )   )    )     )      )
                 (      (     (    (   (  ( (like) )  )   )    )     )      )

a past, present, and future
>>>>>>>>>>shakin' it, shakin' it<<<<<<<<<<
like an Oxford comma weekend.

A love like, <                                                              ­                      >
and a tsk like, <                                                              ­    >
for who sells integrity on a dime?
Slo-mo tracers.....
diss....appointment.

Unconscious tallies of an inhale or exhale
that arises with the all
                unfiltered
                   now hesitant
                        but, yet,
                              here
                             ­       we
                                        are

in absolute wanderings.

I am addicted to the street life,
The street girls that wont make a wife,
The head lights flashing in my eyes,
The tall ****** having glossy waxed thighs;

I am accustomed to the police chase,
The constant fear of sitting in one place,
The drugs and smell of cigar-**** in the air,
And the disgust in the eyes of passers-by as they stare;

I am acquainted to the quick cash for fancy cars,
The possible bullet wounds and permanent scars,
The big booties in the clubs across the street,
And the VIP seats that usually comes with it;

I crave for the knife fights and gang wars,
The fake ideas that i will die for a just course,
The hijacked lamborgini i wil bring to grandma,
The idea that "******" in my neighbourhood will call me master;

Indeed i am fooled by what i see in music videos,
The gangsters turned musicians acting in these videos,
Who end up broke,shattered and in dismay,
Naa, i will stick to the deligence that brings the good pay.

DIY DISASTERS!
Once upon a lifetime,
I knitted a disaster line,
My sister was expecting,
So, I thought I'd be creating,
That first ****** looked beautiful,
Second, third and fourth not so dutiful,
They turned into footy boots size,
So I bought socks in Kmart--surprise!
I never found a baby with four different feet,
For DIY disasters, booties can't be beat.......

DIY DISASTERS!
Once upon a lifetime,
I knitted a disaster line,
My sister was expecting,
So, I thought I'd be creating,
That first ****** looked beautiful,
Second, third and fourth not so dutiful,
They turned into footy boots size,
So I bought socks in Kmart--surprise!
I never found a baby with four different feet,
For DIY disasters, booties can't be beat.......

if you had died
i could have kept your love
and bronzed your memory
like little baby booties on
the mantle over the fireplace

instead you lived
and ran with love away
and left me with an urn
the ashes of your love
whose form i can't discern


(C)2001, Christos Rigakos

Debt Threats tie in
Short arms, deep pockets?

This hand is empty,you’d best fill it up,
Fat cats in in suits better cough it up,
Im broke but not brokedown
I’m fit and and full of the the venom and rage of
An entire age of wage slaves on who’s backs you fed
So we’re fed up you better cough up like syrup,
Before we erupt and melt down,
This whole town,
My home town...

The only way to turn these angry frowns
Upside down is for YOU to dig deep down in your boutique booties
And cough up
Before your face feels-my bootheels,
Are you listentin? Ya better,
Cause we’re fed up and bitter,
You think its getting better? HA?(echo)
Maybe for you…but open up your eyes,
See the cries of those you secretly despise,
And abuse,
And then wonder at the crime rate?

to the world's woes elude me
from down here spinning around
trying to make sense
while making cents into a dollar

or writhing lonely
while  a billion stars
glow in the sky
and the pizzeria
right next door

I find the neon distracting
the clown delivery cars
delivering to the hungry
while I starve
right under the glow
ironic

until I noticed the old woman
at the washeteria,
watching
the washer spin to a stop
slowly with her walker

stoop down in pain,  
unload her knitting of booties ,
with a faint beauty
a smile on her wrinkled
eyes and lips

I've been blazing through these pages, a daily duty
Wit withered away with daily doobies
These ladies with beautiful names
I use to make use of any human, I met who moved me
But these ladies, these brainy beauties
With grace and ageless folly
With so much to give
And so much to take in
Plainly makes me amazed
And jolly, I guess in a way they taught me
Awe,
And to never waste waning words with
Vain and cocky tales of some form of me
I’ve felt, but never comfortably
Presented
Especially not to these brainy beauties
Jaw dropping dripping hotties
Hot chocolate melting on top
Of a fugde sundae
Hot and cold,  every sensation felt
As they enter and escape from me
The best blend
Blessed I guess
Nevertheless
Best left to rest
These brainy beauties
With grace and booties

What will they do with Grandma, now that she is old?
No longer able to fend for herself, by her home-help they've been told
She's always been there for her children but now none of them want to know
Keeping a roof over all of their heads, not all that long ago

She's been the peacemaker for all of her kids, when relationships hit a bad patch
They've all forgotten just how much she did, though their partners she thought a mismatch
She put home-cooked food on their tables when their cupboards all were bare
Helped them to pay their bills, though none of them cared for her

She cooked them all good hearty meals, served them up on their own table
Sometimes she went without food herself, putting them first when she was able
Often she would dread the ringing of the phone
A sound that would usually be welcomed by someone who lived alone

But whenever her phone rang, she would feel very daunted
Wondering who the caller was, and what it was they wanted,
Would it be for money or babysitting duties?
Or maybe her knitting skills, making numerous pairs of booties

Grandma had to live somewhere but refused to go into a home
Frail and unable now to live on her own
Jim was asked to take her in, but he said that he couldn't
He'd always been a selfish man, it was more likely that he wouldn't

Katie said she had no room, but conveniently forgot to mention
That her husband, a bricklayer, had just built a new extension
So it was decided, Grandma would go into a home
The family went around and told her, she could no longer live alone

The greedy lots inheritance in their minds was already spent
But every penny that Grandma had saved, for her keep at the care home it went
Grandma did all sorts for her family, so she couldn’t understand
Why now she's in a care home they never go nearhand,

We now know of Grandma's fate, her story has been told
A lifetime of caring for family, unwanted because she got old

Swiftly flow the years
Like foam upon the waters
Leaving memories of songs
And girls with juicy booties

Friends are running a marathon in it today with raingear handy.
Ducks were racing and splashing without a care.
How waterproof are their feathers?
Others walk their dogs soe dogs wearing their fashionable raincoats and booties.
Many drive to their Saturday plans which are now indoors.
Hearing lyrics to every song about rain from film to rock to theater.
Left tunes home since umbrella and hood get in the way and impossible to get a clear signal.
Rain brings drop zones.
Walking in the the rain.

C@Rainbowchaser2023

When i was a little boy
and my booties could fit within
a small couplet of square metal
to which I had been given

I did not question, I did not complain
I existed the sights and smells of simple place

I licked the mist that watered plants
Crushed coffee beans in the employee
lounge
for they laughed at such a little boy.

It was 2002
and America was still somewhat free
When movie theaters had plastic seats
Empty exits
Then I sat the edge on watching Pokemon

Living in an electronic simulation
Taming, Creating monsters in my spare time
Travelling the tri-valley
Commute of a thousand years

Today,

It only takes minutes
And my soul drips strange when I see the house
Devoid of lavender,
Cut of oak tree

The park that once held the promise of a century
Diminished into brief obscurity
As new developments
Shaped like matchbox
destroy the grass
And raise land prices
To end the american dream

Paved roads that sang of free
take their toll
now I cannot see why this could be

What interest could there be
To paint our chided memory
Out of mind, out of sight?

Now the place I bought grilled cheese
Dipped in sharp tang of pickle juice

Bought and sold to an optometrist
To continue questioning the vision
of our adults

One day I saw Liza Minnelli
on the television
And she said, pointing down at a
Young women's feet
"I know precisely the day when you will no
longer be able to wear those heels!"
I thought
**** you Liza Minnelli!
Shut your mouth!
That is truly unspeakable
Cruel
And it does not concern me.

Sadly,
In less time than I would have liked
My beautiful
Coal black brushed sued
Miu Miu Booties
with a golden zip up the back
And the most fantastic heel
(That line!)
Hurt me beyond
anything I knew
a shoe could do to a person
I started taking ibuprofen
before I slid them on
But I knew
Liza is right.
It's over.

It came for me young like menopause.

Women a decade older
are running all over the place
in their stilettos.
Their four inches.
It's more than I can bear
to look at the images anymore.
Because shoe envy is real.
And so is the grief.

Shoes I have known....

I still think with a heavy heart about those
gorgeous Cesare Paciotti t-straps
Some of my last
although
I didn't know that at the time
It's better not to think
But the memories return
These had an amazing heel as well.
Chunky Italian rather than a delicious subtle
swag.

I seek solace in wedges and kitten heels.

O Liza Minnelli!
That evil forewarning.
Does Disney
have a witch that does this sort of thing
because they should.

The craggy finger extends from the cloak
and points down at
the innocent girl's
barking dogs
encased in an excruciating
yet stunning pair.
No apple.

"When the Sun has returned 57? No.
39 times around the Earth, no beautiful shoe
with a perfect heel and toe-box
will you ever wear again.
The pain will be so great that you will beg to take
them off if you are fool enough to put them on."

That's a strange curse my friend.
What kind of unfulfilled bargain prompted that?
Liza Minnelli!

I'm sure that they've seen this
a million times.
At Saks, Neiman's or Bergdorf's
It's probably boring.
"Oh that again."
The shoe goes back into its box.
No point in bringing out the other.
I'm so very sorry madame
There isn't another size
Have you considered a slipper?

I, myself have considered a fete
where all my old broads
get those heels on
regardless of the ability to walk
Bring the crutches
Or the wheelchair
And pose to the gods
There would be serious pain,
even tears.
But I'm fine with ******.
Seriously.

Instagram parties documenting the old hens
under sedation
or knocked out for the photo session
with those insane heels on.
It could happen.
May have already.

Liza?
Did those red sequins
on your mother's feet
bring into being something not human?
All I know is that it's over for me
and I'm largely innocent.
I will admit to
Jealousy and Envy
but I am not at all bitter
and this does possess cinematic potential
Grimm theatricality
(Grand Guignol used to be
so popular so throw that in)
A Perverse Maytagged Cinderella minus a Prince
It's everything showbiz.
It's entirely fitting.

Vibe-check, it’s Friday. Yay! A delightfully cool Friday at that! I’d like to thank the democratic party (which I’ve heard controls the weather now). Has the heat finally surrendered to the inevitable freshness of fall?
Can we please proceed directly to a cruel winter?

“What are we doing tonight?” I asked Lisa as she sat on the edge of a chair to put on her Nine West tunic pointed-toe booties. She has class this morning and I don’t. I’m sipping coffee, curled up on our red-corduroy couch, under a school themed throw, trying to grasp the plot of a fascinating chemistry book.

“Something fun,” she said, verbatim, offering little concrete as she picked up her slouchy silhouette, hobo bag.
“See ya,” she said, shouldering the door open with her right arm and securing her coffee with her left.
She’s got one of those giant coffee cups that are so vogue. She gives herself 30 minutes, after our morning jog, to get ready for class and that whole time, she’s brewing cup after k-cup of Keurig coffee to fill that monster.
“Byeeeeee,” I responded, before the door clunked closed.

Sunny, came to the door of her room, “Do you separate your whites and darks?” She asked.
“Of course,” I said, not looking up, to save my page-place, “we’re not animals.”
“I never separate,” she confessed.
“That’s why your white socks are pink,” I updogged.
“They are pink,” she said, pulling up her pajama leg to expose her pink socks, “bright pink.”

The serious events have started. Parties thrown by groups, always to a theme, offering whimsical, rainbow palates of fun. We’re here for it, my room and suitemates, all of us. There’s no better way to spend a Friday or Saturday night, than dressing up as a Disney princess, jedi princess or streetwalking zombie princess.

Some nights, there’s more than one and we jump gatherings until we find the perfect one. We easily feed off of each another’s energy. We’re all 21-year-olds now and pushing past painfully obvious insecurities, legal restrictions and occasionally, moral boundaries.

Ok, let’s reach for some Friday night rhymes:

Fridays are reserved for revelry, for noise and crazy mirth,
you can find a rave or masquerade with very little research.

The venues are themed and adorned for festive cheer,
and the turned-up music ignites those dance-like atmospheres.

Picture tapestries of youthful fun and you’ve grasped the vibe of the night.
In fleeting moments, we reach for it - I hope you brought your invite.

There was a disappointing ‘jungle rave’ where people were smoking inside!
Are you a ‘master of the universe,’ if you can’t get air-quality right?

Way too soon the revels cease
and in the Saturday morning quiet, we search out tasty eats.
We did it for memories, to give our dull lives a makeover
and good news! I didn’t wake up with a hangover.
.
.
Songs for this:
Nite Becomes Day by Citizen Cope
Breathe In by Frou Frou

no more does my mother knit
half finished scarves, tea cosies
and tiny shell like booties
sit in forlorn piles
awaiting a hand that
is no longer deft
or interested

her conversation is now not
accompanied by the soft rhythmic
clicking of needles, tapping away
we are no longer halted in questions
by the phrase"just let me finish the row"

now, pattern books are filed away
wool paased on to others for their projects
groups of women no longer gather

my mothers hands lay idle and listless
in her lap, finger bent and curled
in painful submission  to age

she is some how smaller, diminished
as tho the k itting needles gave her strength
to battle to stand stoic, against the tides of misfortune
that battered the island that was her life...

my mother no longer knits
and in me that creates a sadness
that is deeper than words explain
and often as I sit with her
I long to here that rhythmic clicking
that was the back ground to my childhood

knit one purl one.....