“find a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic”

she does, Frida
she does.
she looks at me like I am Galileo
and I have mapped the stars just for her;
she has never been more right.

I have spent countless hours
charting the constellations in her eyes,
in the way she drinks her coffee,
in the sound of her breathing when she’s fallen asleep beside me.

when the room grows still,
I kiss the night sky’s secrets into the palms of her hands,
and know that they are safe.

I am so lucky to love her, Frida.
I am so lucky she sees the light in all my dark
and chooses to stay.

Her thick brow,
Is only her choice.
A stance against norms.
2. Ribbons and flowers,
All tangled in her hair.
A decorative crown,
But beauty is not defined here.
3. She had many lovers,
Of many kinds.
But promiscuity,
Does not define worth.
4. Drink more than the men.
To dance with a love,
They can never have.
5. Politics are unimportant,
Only the ideas in your mind.
Of equality and charity,
But it will leave somebody dead.
6. Be bold and smart.
Follow your own direction,
Maybe dress like a man
7. When a trolley crashes,
Leaving you wishing for death,
Draw on your bandage.
Don’t let your broken column
Break your strength.
8. Don’t fall in love with artists,
They drink too much,
Cheat too much.
And will break your heart
9. Fall in love with artists,
A musician, maybe a painter.
You’ll never be bored,
You’ll always be drunk.
10. Just don’t let them break you,
Don’t stop painting because you’re hurt.
Don’t give them the satisfaction,
Of breaking your wings.
11. You don’t need anyone,
When you have wigs to fly.
Don’t need feet,
Or anyone else.
12. You probably feel like a freak,
Like the weirdest person you’ve ever known.
But as long as you’re weird with me,
You’ll never be weird alone.
13. Make friends with the past,
With people you’ve never known.
It’ll always be a source of security,
No one can leave that’s already gone.

I look at Frida through her paint, through her words, through the story of her life she has taught me not to be afraid.

Odysseus needs a job he calls pima community college art department chairperson sends her his resume she does not respond after a week he catches her on phone she says he lacks proper credentials laughs to himself his whole life never worked lucrative or reputable position gets job working at thrift store wacky group of coworkers customers store frequently smells like public latrine job expires after 7 weeks he gets better paying job working at record exchange Odysseus always loved music everyday he learns new artist or band his coworkers are at least half his age they pester him about being slow on keyboard he never learned to type neither he nor his generation could have foreseen future would revolve around keyboard he plods on register keys people smile politely kids he works with fly fast making many keyboard mistakes November 29 2001 george harrison dies of cancer he is 58 years old Odysseus recognizes he is from past world different era of contrasting standards ‘80’s behavior is totally unbefitting let alone ‘60’s beliefs it is 2002 and one badly chosen word is sure to send someone flying off the handle he watches his language carefully co-workers mostly born in 1980’s grew up in 1990’s they live indifferent to hopelessness he struggles to bear none of them believe in higher power music is their religion he wonders what their visions concerns for humanity are? they seem addicted to consumption as if it is end in itself he questions what is hidden at root of their absorption? loneliness? despair? apathy? absence of vision? where is their rage against social conversion current administration? he warns them about homeland security act privacy infringement increased government secrecy power they shrug their shoulders why aren’t they looking for answers? why don’t they dissent? do they care where world is going? he realizes they will have to learn for themselves few coworkers read literature or know painters philosophy their passions are video games marijuana “star wars” most of them are extremely bright more informed than he often Odysseus needs to ask questions they know answers to right off the bat he is like winsome uncle who puts up with their unremitting teasing “hey you old hippie punk rocker get you fiber in today? stools looking a little loose! peace out old man” in peculiar way he finds enough belonging he so desperately needs they tell him stories about their friends *** addictions eating disorders futile deaths he is bowled over by how young they are to know such stuff job includes health insurance which is something he has not had since Dad was alive having some cash flowing in he buys laptop computer with high-speed connection cell phone trades in toyota for truck opens crate of writings he abandoned in ‘80’s begins to rewrite story sits blurry eyed in front of computer screen his motivation has always been to tell truth as he knows it he wonders what ramifications his labor will bring positive or negative results? he guesses his story will sound like children’s fable in stark brutality of distant future october 2002 3 week ****** spree terrorizes maryland virginia  district of columbia 10 people killed 3 critically wounded police believe white van responsible october 24 man and 17-year-old boy arrested in blue chevy caprice juvenile is shooter assailants linked to string of random murders including unsolved shooting of man at golf course in tucson Odysseus mentions incident at work speaks of prevailing terror madness in america co-workers kid tell him he is crazy “did you see a white van parked outside the store Odys?” they seem desensitized to increasing national atmosphere of anger panic or perhaps they are overwhelmed by weight trauma of modern life lie after lie prevailing  havoc slaughter make for dull numbness in world they know suicide is compelling option december 22nd 2002 joe strummer dies from heart failure at age 50 Odysseus’s eyes wet he adored the clash everything they stood for loved joe strummer and mescaleros he plays “global a go-go” over and over listens sings along with first track “johnny appleseed” march 2003 president bush launches attack against iraq united states seems drunk with “shock and awe” zealous blind patriotism many people politicians countries around globe question unproven line of reasoning saddam hussein possesses “weapons of mass destruction” Odysseus gripes “not another **** vietnam” record company allows employees to check out take home used product Odysseus stopped watching movies in 1980’s he has lots of catching up to do particularly likes “natural born killers” “american history x” “american ******” “fight club” “way of the gun” “******” “king of new york” “basquiat” “frida” “*******” “before night falls” “quills” “requiem for a dream” “vanilla sky” “boys don’t cry” “being john malkovich” “adaptation” “kids” “lost in translation” “25th hour” “28 days later” “monster” “city of god” “gangs of new york” “**** bill” list goes on perfect circle becomes his favorite band followed by tool lacuna coil my morning jacket brian jonestown massacre flaming lips dredg drive-by truckers dropkick murphys flogging mollies nofx stereophonics eels weakerthans centro-matic califone godspeed you black emperor magnetic fields fiery furnaces dresden dolls smog granddaddy calexico howie gelb sufjan stevens warren haynes dax riggs john vanderslice alejandro escovedo sean paul elephant man bjork p. j. harvey ani difranco aimee mann cat power sophie b. hawkins kathleen edwards mia doi todd kimya dawson regina spektor carina round neko case fiona apple nina nastasia beth gibbons mirah rasputina dr. dre talib kweli immortal technique murs slug atmosphere trick daddy eazy-e tricky list goes on october 21 2003 elliott smith commits suicide stabbing 2 wounds into his chest Odysseus thinks about music when jimi hendrix stood up at woodstock deconstructing national anthem on guitar it took courage when punk emerged with ugly screechy sounds attempting to divorce itself from melodious harmonies of 1970s complacent crosby stills nash  the dead kennedys and *** pistol did not pander to conventional commercial success what they performed were desperate gutsy songs trying to reclaim music rock’n’roll is no longer about inventing instead it imitates its glorious past hip-hop and rap come nearest to risking rebellion but are caught in gangsterism infantile self-adulation no longer does music offer vision of what is or could be instead it conjures looping escapism from hopelessness of modern life he continues working at record shop for several years store contains every genre of music cinema he grows weary of retail sales weary of higher-ups constantly changing rules dictating what to do head manager is manipulative drama queen thrives on crisis once in private admits stealing from company Odysseus nods not knowing what to say head manager works Odysseus hard keeps him down atmosphere of conspiracy betrayal hang at start of each day assistant manager routinely taunts berates bullies teases regularly calls Odysseus “dumb-****” or “****-up” other times laughs after goading Odysseus to flinch eventually bully backs off and they become friends retail pushes Odysseus to brink of misanthropy corporation requires all employees to exercise overt courteousness while serving a public of disrespectful gang bangers demanding “show me black market brotha lynch mac dre why ya godda keep dat **** behind da counter? dat’s ****** up hey old man i ain’t got all day” it always amazes him when shoplifter is caught with product stuffed down his pants thief blatantly states “i didn’t do it i don’t know how that got there” thanksgiving through christmas to new years is most swarming stressful he feels like automaton greeting customer scanning product looking at screen to see if price agrees with product typing money amount counting money into drawer counting money out handing change to customer handing customer product receipt next customer cockroach capitalism packs of masses line up in endless stream of needs stupid remarks job also involves trade appraising condition value resale probability of cds dvds video games tapes vhs vinyl news of  iraq war gets dismal mounting civilian casualties suicide bombers hostages beheadings beginning of 2004 reports of torture ****** psychological abuse **** ****** ****** of prisoners at abu ghraib prison guantanamo bay white house cover-ups denials growing insurgency increasing u.s. body count other costs he thinks about men and women who are so much braver than him then comes re-election and lavish republican parties parades cheney rumsfeld tom delay and whole regime smirk portentously on tv none of it makes sense anymore “we the people of the united states” what does it mean? the dreams and aspirations of his generation have long since faded away he is citizen of forgotten past current world is barbaric place he barely recognizes there are real pirates with machetes rocket launchers on the seas big drug corporations hiding harmful findings kidnapped children abandoned children crooked politicians corruption at every level of society horrifying stories daily ******* priests slave markets extreme heinous cruelties abruptly everyone is acknowledging society is worsening life is not the same he does not understand people and certainly does not understand america or the world he remembers when all could be so good modern existence has turned everything into madness what happened to lessons of history? it is as if Odysseus fell asleep and when he woke everything is changed he is mistaken about what he thinks he knows feels pity for people america pity disgust sorrow he misses his dog

Dar Al-Hekma University hosted its second fashion show on Sunday that featured the work of its second batch of fashion design undergraduates.

The event, titled “Luminosity” was held under the auspices of Princess Reem **** Muhammad Al-Faisal. President of the university Dr. Suhair Hassan Al-Qurashi said: “Providing such events to our students before graduation exposes them to industry leaders of their prospective industries and gives them a head start in their careers.

“Dar Al-Hekma University’s students stand out because of the combination of their high caliber and the opportunities the university provides for them.”

Along with industry leaders, families of participating students attended. The event started with an opening speech by the department chair for the fashion design program Dina Kattan, who then introduced the sophomore and junior students’ work.

Afterward, models wearing three-piece collection garments designed by senior students scheduled to graduate this year took the stage and were graded by four judges.

Kattan said: “I am so proud of the work my students presented today; they worked really hard and they deserve a big hand. “Everyone was impressed with the level of creativity and attention to detail they demonstrated.”

The judges were Batool Jamjoom, businesswoman in the fashion industry and manager and owner of Jamjoom Fashion House; Amra Alabdalilsharif, director of the innovation and visual merchandising department at Rubaiyyat; Dalal Al-Hasan, a fashion designer; and Aram Kabbani, Dar Al-Hekma alumna and fashion stylist.

The grades students received during the fashion show will form part of their final grade. One of the students whose designs were featured at the show, Zahar Algain, said her collection was inspired by Mexican artist Frida Kahlo.

“Studying fashion has altered my perspective. I view fashion, in the same way that I view life; it’s a matter of balance and proportions.

“My interest in avant-garde fashion has led me to believe in using creativity to solve difficult situations. Algain’s collection was meant to blur the line between art and fashion.

“It is inspired by Frida Kahlo but with a fictional twist. “The story behind my collection is a daydream, a magical love story, an artwork; it is splattered with Frida’s colorful soul and spirit.”

Following this women only event, Dar Al-Hekma is organizing a one-day fashion design exhibition on Tuesday, which is open to all. The event starts from 7 p.m.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide | www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses

Your soul was always isolated from
the world around you—from the very beginning. Time
alone was something you valued (as should we all)
but your isolation took on many forms—many
hungry shadows looming over you at all times.

A collision of iron and steel left you
immobile, and by the standards expected of
women, useless: your womb would never swell,
and you would never experience the pain of
bringing a child into this cruel world.

The fractures
and the wounds healed, but you
never recovered.

In the face of impossibility, you still
tried in desperation; leaving you in cold
unfamiliar hospital rooms, where all you
can see is an alien landscape; where all you
can think about is the reasons you are  here,
and the reasons your baby will never be.

It is a pain in your heart that leaves you gutted
like the iron handrail that embedded itself
through your ******. The bed is soaked
with your tears and your blood; it is the pain
of knowing that you will never hold a baby
who sees you as God; you will never experience
the love of a child, glowing with innocence.

O* fragrant wind float
a flower from Frida's hair
into my heart's crown.

Te invoco a ti Frida,
creo que entiendes mi padecer.
Tengo el moderno Diego Rivera como mi amor!
La mitad del tiempo vivo en sosiego,
más sin él, la vida no la entiendo.

Él es todas las greguerías habidas y por haber.
Me enciende y me apaga en el mismo instante.
Me habla pero su silencio es como el calor,
lo sientes, pero, no lo puedes ver.

Me habla de amor,
y me trata como como si estuviésemos en un campo de batalla.
Habla de una eternidad junto a mí,
más en sus planes del futuro, no figuro en ninguna parte.

Lo amo y lo odio paralelamente.
Amo cuando me ama,
Y odio la idiota, que por él, me convierto.
Si me toma de repente, surco los cinco continentes.
Veo el amor retoñar.
Lo veo revivir en sonrisas de jóvenes ilusos.
Los puentes se fortalecen de felicidad.
La mugre y el lodo se convierten en arte.
El agua sucia es tan cristalina como la misma pureza.
Cuando me olvida, cuando me ignora, es la más cruel crucifixión.
Es relamer la sangre coagulada.
Llueve contantemente, y los relámpagos truenan mis huesos.
La harmonía se entrega dócilmente a la desolación.
Se debilita el universo.
Me seco.
Yaga mi cuerpo en Seol..
porque amarlo a él como lo amo, es mi gran pecado!

Dime Frida,
¿cómo hiciste para soportar tanto amor?
¿para amarlo más que a ti misma?
¿Para desangrar el alma y sentirte plena con él, aunque por dentro estés vacía?

No me respondas. Me obligaría a tomar una decisión.
Lo amo, aunque me mate hacerlo!

LeydisProse
6/2/2017
https://m.facebook.com/LeydisProse/

Love is like a Frida Kahlo painting
It doesn’t make sense
It’s a bit absurd
Vibrant, definitely
And leaves you wanting more
Older than ourselves
Yet with a spirit younger than anything else

to sleep i may, but not the dark vessel
of mine eyes, over stormy seas of placenta and albatross
tossed from the palm of  a rough hewn, Five-Headed Crane
raking five beaks across a canvass of my wounded fires -
and my brazen black honey, trembling on the lip
of mis-fortunate birth...,
in the cataract of
a fine hat
on a fat
rebel.

my public spaces engineered
to come from the inside

the wastelands are beautiful

as you gawk
at the red
sun

a bead of red plasma,
flowing from an
open vein

in a mind shaft.

with a bad back
and no front.

but a lasting gasp....

You tell me that I am young
That life has merely licked me, not stung
That I do not understand, that I have not yet lived
Enough to grasp the substance

I have known disease
Slow tears, muted pleas
Pain that nothing could appease
I have known the smell of hospitals for summers
The beeping and slurping of machine in massive numbers

I have spoken to voiceless loved ones,
Loved ones with teethless mouths and twisted tongues
Distorted jaws and wheezing lungs.
We have spoken with little green charts
And broken hearts
From the inability to connect the mouth to the thoughts in the head
And I left without understanding,
What they had said
Because I eventually had to let it go
(I still don't know)

I have spent countless summer nights
In nature’s garb, floating silently in a river
So warm that my limbs, skimming the surface, didn't shiver
Under a clear sky, the stars like paradisiac lights
Without anyone ever finding out
About these wild and primal escapades

I've drank, I've smoked
I have burned my throat
With coarse lemon gin
Until I could no longer feel my skin.

I have been frightened
Yes I have felt fear, like a noose around my throat being tightened
Like a gruesome black crow, perched on my shoulder
I have often awoken affright at night,
Longing, praying, for the morning light
I have felt fear, wild, fierce and turbulent fear
More than anyone will everyone will ever know
By men, by life, by myself
Desolate under the sheets, like a forsaken toy
All by myself

I have seen Paris in the rain
Traveled the French countryside by train
I've woken up to New York window views
And seen New Orleans afternoons, filled with heat and blues.
I've swam the Mexican Baja waters, turquoise and clear
With snakes as sharp as spears

I have known humiliation
Causing my cheeks to turn carnation
A spoon, emptying my insides out
Like a gourd

I have loved
I have known the aching pain of a swelled heart
And the way it can tear you apart
I have gushed torrents upon my pillows and sleeves
Tears running down my chin like guilty thieves
From a lit-up house

I have known death, and grief
The meaning of "never"
Whimpering in the school bathroom
And cold, lonely nights

I have seen the works of Van Gogh, Mondrian, and Miro,
Modigliani, Cezanne, and Frida Kahlo
Of Monet, Gauguin, Matisse, Magritte, and Picasso
I have wandered through hallways of masterpieces
Holding tight to my grandmother's hand
And I have wept shamelessly for joy
Before Degas's La classe de danse

I have been diagnosed
I have undergone computer programs designed to shift my brain, to better it
To get me to be normal, to submit
I have had brain-altering medicine shoved down my throat,
Like stuffing a goose,
To make my brain run a little less loose
And I have submitted and gotten use to my brain being altered.

I have had kisses that were mere trifles
Frivolous, yet fierce and acute like shots from a rifle
Lips of mere flesh, not sweet godly nectar
And gazes that meant everything
That seemed to connect with an invisible yet indestructible string
Iris like distant galaxies and pupils twinkling like black jewels
Eyes that seemed enkindled by some ethereal fuel
Speaking of emotions far too secluded, cryptic and cluttered
To be worded and uttered

I know the way in which violence resides
Not in commotion, brusqueness, nor physical harm
But in silence
In the time that covers pain and secrets
In the slow impossibility of trust
In the way that some secrets become inconceivable to tell, time has so covered them in rust
In that dull, dismal ache
In all that is doomed to remain forever opaque.

I have read, for pleasure,
The works of Balzac, Fitzgerald, Steinbeck, and Voltaire
Of Bobin, Gaude, and Baudelaire
Of Flaubert, Hemingway
and good old Bradbury, Ray
Émile Zola,  Primo Levi
Moliere, Rousseau, and Bukowski
I have read, and loved, and understood

I have known insomnia
The way a beach knows the tides
Sleepless nights of convulsive, feverish panic, of clutching my sides,
Of silent hysteria and salty terror.
I know what happens at night, when sweet slumber seems so far away
The worries and woes seem to multiply and swell in hopeless disarray
My lips grow pale, my eye grow sunken
As a time ticks by, tomorrow darkens




I have witnessed horror
In the form of a blue body bag
Being rolled out with a squeaking drag
By two yellow-vested men
With apologetic eyes
That seemed to say "Oh god
We're so sorry you had to see that
Please, please
Go home
And try to forget"

But you are right
I am still just a child
Naive, innocent, and pure
I have known nothing dark or obscure
I have not yet lived.

Calico Beauty,
Without human effort
you win roars of cherish.
lifting not a gloved finger
you give us what we need.
you are soft-nuzzle tentative:
a humble pad-pad-pad
when it longs to be heard.
all softness in your shrinking night-sky back.
my hand searches for the cold baby-down
and
you are sweetly out of reach.
how sweet
indeed.
Dali’s very own
you take your ocelot pride
with surreal stillness
on a pedestal that is not yours.
and sometimes
you rest in foggy caution
and I steal
a close moment.
but too close!
your headlights flash
and you swim away.
I have not the cruelty to pursue you.

what she said about
all her loves and
the fountain of sleep
the spring of thirst
have just showed me
this resonant truth
like an oracle
I am still trapped
in this echo: that
I am as mad as
I've always been
maybe even worse
cause now I can see
the stars and the voids
in plain daylight
and I want to say
with all my waters
with all my earths
with all my deaths
with all my fallings
into the sky

Frida said
come what may
I wonder if she feared
the bloodflood

Today is the anniversary of another trip around the sun for the woman I love more than any other.
Happy Birthday to my mother, Elise
who drew me a picture of the female reproductive system
and labeled the parts
and explained the process
of *******
before my body ever had a chance to frighten me
who taught me the word
******
and taught me that there was nothing silly, or shameful, or icky
about the word
or having one.
who taught me
that people are inherently the same
and humans are valuable
and the meaning of the word
humanity
and the value of justice
and the meaning of the word
"injustice"
and consistently confronted it
often uncomfortably
but un-apologetically
whenever we found ourselves in its presence
Who responded to compliments
about my appearance as a child
with humble disinterested grace
and taught me with intention
in everything she said and did
that what is valuable about me
is my mind
and my heart
kindness
spirit
ethics
righteousness
some may say too much of the latter
who taught me about Janis, and Sylvia, and Frida
and Roe v Wade
and punctuation and articulation and diction
and the Serenity Prayer, and that Galway Kinnel poem about what is still possible...
I love you Mom. I could go on forever. My love and my gratitude for you - and what you have gifted and instilled in me - is bigger than the universe and eternity and possibility.
So glad you are with the sweetest child in the whole wide world this evening.
Loving and sending you love and bright light so hard.


Micah Haverly  2015

My fantasies turned blonde in ‘seventy-six.

Bjorn, Benny, flickas, sailed  from East to West.

Santa Lucia never shone so blessed

as she did in my private Euro-mix.

Perfect pop longs for that feminine fix.

Cassette wheels whirred –  branding, then impressing

grooves upon the brain; my thrall confessing

love for Nordic light (in Disco metrics).

The names still strike flames, kindling bright renown:

Frida, Agnetha  –  your longships linger

Your Viking faces sacked my harbor town.

portaging hope to this shipwrecked singer,

enwreathing smiles to reach our further shore.

I Do… (times five – and will forevermore).

The human sacrifices begin at noon. I must hurry to prepare the ruins.

Good: The pyramids retain their purity of line; the hieroglyphs balance out the skulls, more or less. Let us say, oh, two to one.

A Diego Rivera mural stretches from wall to wall of the Mayan ball court. (Are those blues really from nature?)

Heads will roll! I predict.

I need more coffee — any style. Bring me the big, steaming bowls of France that you must slurp two-handedly. Bring me the tiny espresso shots of Italy, bitter and inadequate, always calling for another cup.

Bring me café in an ornamental Mexican jar painted in bright ochres and reds. Set it on a geometrically designed serape with just a hint of purple on the fringe.

I will sop up the last drop of caffeine with my tortilla, while dining room tables multiply like serpents.

I must hurry. The sacrifices begin at noon.

Already, the humidity clings to my skin like a cheap cologne.

How stupid of me not to have worn a white linen suit, huaraches, and a Panama hat  (straw, of course).

In any case, I am the expert. My art criticism begins now.

Rivera’s human figures roll in a wave of revolutionary fervor: too rounded, too cherubic, too pastel. Industry, agriculture, fraternity, socialism. Hand me the hammer. But no bare *******, as in Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People.

A careless oversight. ****** always adds a pleasant focal point to a painting.

Suddenly, bad news breaks. The sacrifices have been called off; the ballplayers  have converted to Communism. Viva la revolución!

                                                 + + +

Frida Kahlo twirls her mustache to match the flair of Salvador Dali’s.

Her heart flutters for the Spanish surrealist, who has bug-eyes only for Gala.

Kahlo deigns to paint his portrait, which turns out to be another of her
 self-portraits. So many selves. So many portraits.

This one sports ample ****** hair and a monkey on her shoulder, who leans across to eat the gardenia behind her right ear. Or is it a carnation? Ah, carnations only calcify into clichés. Let us call it a hibiscus, and be done with it.

(Still, are those lurid colors from nature?)

I must hurry. The exhibition will begin at 2 a.m., the hour when all the wine shops close, and the retablos disappear from the churches. No respect for authority after la revolución. Only the self, the self. Always the self.

Kahlo twists her mustache into a braid for her next self-portrait: Liberty Leading the Mexican People. She squeezes into an orthopedic corset, bare-breasted.

I pull out my droopy Dali watch to eye the time. The hands cross at midnight.

I must hurry. Yet Kahlo insists I sit.

She paints my portrait with a spike through my spine, a shattered pelvis, and partial paralysis of the legs. I can no longer walk a straight line.

She thinks I am she, in trousers. The self, the self. Always the self.

My moustache grows heavier than hers, however, and I painstakingly pluck out the unibrow.

But I adore her monkey, with his close-set eyes. He eats a carnation for penance each morning, then primps before the mirror. The self, the self. The primate self.

More bad news: Dali cancels the exhibition. He has been demoralized by the retablos, which radiate beauty in six dimensions: height, breadth, length and the omnipresence of the Holy Trinity.

A genuine milagro: The streets fill with gardenias and hibiscus. The Mayan ballplayers convert to Catholicism.

A white skeleton dances with Kahlo in the moonlight. He wears her leather-and-steel braces.

No matter. I am the art critic, and I declare all Mexican colors indigenous, naturalistic, and caffeinated. Then I turn out the dining room lights.

A starry, starry night. The humidity sinks into the cenote.

Tomorrow, I shall buy a monkey and teach it to paint. All colors from nature, of course.

Fitz
Fritz
Fido
Sandy
Spencer
Chaplain
Bernard
Jesse
Snoopy
Charlie
Charles
Fred
Freddy
Bones
Remmy
Ren­a
Reno
Tony
Julian
Julie
Frisco
Meghan
Addison
Robby
Buddy
Rudy
F­riedrich
Fredrick
Bernie
Rudolph
Adolf
Ferdinand
Rose
Cassie
Cassidy
Lee
Balto
Little *****
Allen
Alvin
Jake
Demi
Randy
Alex
Richard
Alexis
Kenneth
Ken­ny
Chris
Jose
Josey
Rodger
Moe
Joe
Emilio
Walt
Emily
Emma
Maddie
­Anna
Jafar
Aladin
Jasmine
Genie
******
Amber
Gracie
Ramen
Gordy
G­ordon
Jordie
James
Bucky
Huff
Manny
Sam
Samantha
Mary
Marie
Tila
­Rita
Cathy
Tammy
Mickey
Cam
Amelia
Rene
Jeb
Dan
Bagel
Tommy
Donut­
Bubbles
Blossom
Buttercup
Mark
Cody
Andy
Cristo
Andrea
Whiskers
­Mike
Bill
Billy
George
Geo
Joy
Mitch
Trigger
Tigger
Stephen
Archi­medes
Anya
Duncan
Nitro
Crash
Bub
Crystal
Egor
Bernadette
Cammy
T­immy
Antonio
Natasha
Natalia
Ivan
Abbey
Abdul
Carly
Aaron
Omega
F­inn
Nina
Debby
Tomato
Tabby
Artie
Archie
Noah
Kyle
Alfie
Alfred
Conrad
Conner
******
G­unner
Fry
Fries
*******
Constance
Connie
Frank
Fran
Candice
D­andy
Lucy
Lou
Louis
Quincy
Doogle
Dubie
Dakota
Ace
Casey
Barry
Te­rry
Trenton
Gabe
Laurie
Cornelius
Kabob
Sky
Skylar
Rufus
Louie
Ba­rton
Kimmy
Angel
Capri
Basil
Cy
Ruby
Emerald
Eleanea
Elenor
Barth­olomew
Jazz
Dreamer
Thunder
Topaz
Amethyst
Salsa
Meril
Dodo
Toto
­Eric
Barbera
Hannah
Katie
Zoey
Ben
Pinto
Squanto
Columbus
Columbo
Porgy
Bess
Clark
Savannah
Ken­dra
Marco
Leise
Toby
Trevor
Tresten
Treven
Adrienne
Caleb
Carlyn
­Ricky
Gibby
Donny
Han
Solo
Hans
Gabby
Dirk
Spot
Sebastian
Dee
Sco­oby Doo
Shaggy
Polly
Reginald
Burger
Steak Sauce
Ethan
Bradberry
Lucky
Fergie
Cheese
Boxer
Napoleon
Snowball­
Gerald
Jeremy
Benji
Gemma
Pal
Mal
Preston
Jack
Jackson
Molly
Mac­kenzie
Alexie
Alicia
Dora
Olivia
Salvador
Beast
Beauty
Oliver
Dal­e
Rim
Marley
Diego
*****
Bobby
Ralston
Zeke
Rooney
Plato
Cole
Nep­tune
Sailor
Frida
Rico
Dali
Veronica
Victor
Copeland
Swift
Riley
­Tubs
Lassie
Yo-yo
Harvey
Lemonade
Coke
Pepsi
Tanya
Camille
Token
­Laser
Beam
Seamus
Dorthy
Ian
Moby

you were wounded
in the deep dusk of the forest.
I saw your antlers
and began to weep,
your blood weeping from nine arrows.

At that moment in the clearing,
I finally saw your eyes.
Cupid has clearly been clumsy
and you’ve let me become lousy.

This deer was enormous,
and carried your face.

an Ode to Eppie

I once had what I thought was a brilliant idea
My friends listened dutifully without the eye roll the less loyal would have thrown in
Before announcing that I am not allowed to name any children I end up having
So I sure as **** better find a husband with an idea of what a name is

I wanted a daughter named Epic
Because I couldn’t imagine a bigger adventure than parenting
And there was no way I was dealing with the torture of pregnancy
To produce a child that was anything less than epic
I wanted a daughter with the world laid out for her
There would be no painful heart wrenching breakups for her
No gangly awkward phase
She would be the physical representation of the bond her father and I shared
She would be love incarnated
And I can’t imagine anything more epic than that
I wanted a daughter named Epic
Nicknamed Eppie
Bambi told me that nickname was even worse than hers
And I named her after a cartoon deer with a dead mother
I guess they might have a point in this who name thing

I wanted a daughter named Epiphany
Because if I am ever (crazy) lucky enough to bring a girl into this world
With my genes and the cruel ways of boys stacked against her
I will sure as hell had some major epiphany
If I am ever (stupid) blessed enough to have a daughter
I want every moment with her to be a grand realization of my life
This is who I am
This moment is what I was made for
Whether it’s picking her up after a scraped knee
Advising her that Alphie only hit her because he likes her
Or telling her that no, leggings are not pants
She would be the reason I went through all of this
The reason I got my heart broken by the world over and over again
So that it could complete me
I wanted a daughter named Epiphany
Nicknamed Eppie
“Like an EpiPen?” Fluffy (Patrick before I went about nicknaming) questioned
“No, not like an Epinephrine auto injector at all.”
Maybe naming isn't my forte

I wanted a daughter named Epitome
Because a name is more than a word
A name is a decision
I would make it clear that she was loved
She would be the embodiment of every hope dream and wish I ever had
Just by breathing each day
I wanted my whole life to be leading up to the day I met her
If I was ever going to give a new life
She would be everything
The epitome of my entire life
I wanted a daughter named Epitome
Nicknamed Eppie
Laci (aka Frida) whose nickname could be interchangable with that of a stripper
Laughed
And decided that 'Emily' would be just fine for any daughter of mine

♪♥♫♥♫♥♪♥♫♥♫

My fantasies turned blonde in ‘seventy-six.

Bjorn, and the flickas sailed  from East to West.

Santa Lucia never shone so blessed

as she did in my private Euro-mix.

Perfect pop longs for that feminine fix.

Cassette wheels whirred –  branding, then impressing

grooves upon the brain; my thrall confessing

love for Nordic light (in Disco metrics).

The names still strike flames, kindling bright renown:

Frida, Agnetha  –  your longships linger

Your Viking faces sacked my harbor town.

portaging hope to this shipwrecked singer,

enwreathing smiles to reach our further shore.

I Do… (times five – and will forevermore).

I dreamed of Frida Kahlo
"yo era ella amante"
pure, paupered prince to her primal queen
yet still I hollowed a carnal niche into the midst
of one perdurable, lurid " noche de los muertos"
and fingered the lachrymose from her lacerations
counting prurient  time in a piercing nine of
perennial persecution before I wore her pelt
to lay me down in her sanguinary glow

1) When her boyfriend sticks his tongue down your throat, do not kiss back. Push him away, then swallow down the bile that's threatening to spill out of your soft lips. Take off, run, and never look back. Some boys like to play dangerous games; but darling, you are not a toy.

2) The boy next door with the tanned skin and earthy brown eyes will whisper beautiful things to you. Sad things, loving things, things that will make the blood rush to your cheeks in raging streams. Don't believe the words that tumble out of his mouth baby; most people never really mean what they say. But that's life, and it'll be okay.

3) Be strong, be bold, be unafraid of the world and all the people in it. Always, always speak your mind and pounce to action when injustice creeps up on you. Challenge him when he questions you, hurl facts and opinions like darts until he recedes with shame. Whenever you feel rage and anger spreading like wildfire through your heart, speak up. Your words matter. You matter.

4) You are beautiful. You have always been beautiful, and you need to believe that you are. Even if the magazines don't appreciate your wide hips or your glowing brown skin; dark and soft like honey, learn how to love yourself. This body is the only home you'll have in this lifetime, so my darling, learn how to embrace every scar, freckle and mole. You are made out of the same atoms that formed Frida Kahlo and Picasso. You are art and you need to have faith in that.

5) It's okay to eat dinner on your own. Or lunch. Or breakfast for that matter. There is no shame in solitude. Go to a quaint cafe; and observe the sights and sounds around you. Take note of the smell of fresh coffee hanging hot and heavy in the air. You are by yourself and free to be who you really are.  It is a lovely feeling. Revel in it, my love. When you finally leave, you will realize that you've just learned how to be okay on your own.

6) If someday you wake up and start to see the world in greys, please, please come to me first. I will hold you and we'll take a long drive to nowhere with your favourite mix-tape playing in the car. I will remind you that the only way out is through, and that the demons in your mind are most definitely not stronger than you. I will tell you how much this world needs you so it can heal, how staying alive is a much better deal. I will tell you that I love you, then kiss your forehead, and promise to do everything I can, until your universe stops playing out in shades of blue.

Inspired by Judy Blume,  inside Jokes with Liz and the poetry of Alissa Grams (https://alissagrams.wordpress.com/2017/03/06/an-open-letter-to-god-from-an-eighteen-year-old-girl/)

~

God,
it's me--
jade.

I must admit,
I've never read
Judy Blume
or the Bible,
for that matter
(I could never make it
past Genesis).

I am not well-versed
when it comes to scripture--
I am fluent in tragedy
and tragedy alone;
then again,
is there really any difference
between scripture and tragedy?

I was never one
to pay attention in church,
unless the hymns
were of a minor key,
the sermons imbued
with woe and melancholia.

Coincidentally,
as I write this,
it has only just occurred to me
that Lot's Wife
was never given a name
of her own--
it was destroyed with *****,
forgotten amongst the
flames and the ash.


God,
you were wrong
to punish her
the way you did.

Have you never felt the
sting of salt
against an open wound?

Have you never watched
as all the familiar intimacies
you once knew
dissolved to cinder?

(I know you have).

Do you not see that,
if home is where the heart is,
then the heart
must surely perish with it?

God,
has anyone ever broken your heart?

(I think you know heartbreak
as well as I do;
it is the very matter
of our existence).

So I guess my real question is
why?
(and, no, this time, it is not rhetorical).

Truly,
I'd like to know why
you would ever think
to hurt your people
the same way
the archangel hurt you.

You say I sin
against you,
but did you not
create me in your image?

(Like father,
like daughter,
I suppose).

god,
I do not think
I believe in you.

At least,
I do not believe in you
like I believe in other things.

I do not
believe in you
the way I believe in
the beauty of
Van Gogh's sunflowers
(his starry nights, too);
or in dog-earing the pages
of my favourite books.

I do not believe in you
the way I believe in magic;
or in the integrity of
polaroids photographs
and listening to vinyl.

I do not believe in you
the way I believed in my love
during the final moments
before his betrayal;
or in the lingering sensation
of my past lives--
Ophelia.
Mary Queen of Scots.
Frida Kahlo.
Sylvia Plath--
and now,
dare I feel it,
dare I say it--
Lot's Wife.

(With her,
I shall share a name).

I do not believe
you are my saviour
because I do not
believe in you
the way I believe
in Poetry.

god,
it's me--
Jade;
this poem is
my hallelujah,
but it does not
belong to you
(not anymore).

She had a Frida Kahlo look,
an honest beauty,
and too much innocence for anyone with half a history.

With streaks of ore in her tangled hair,
and gold paint brush flicks in the geography of her eyes,
She was a miner's delight, Oro Fino.

There is nothing more attractive than a hardworking man,
except when they resemble hoarding dragons.
Their fiery passions, searing.

There is nothing more tragic than asphyxiation,
either from the dense, smoky fumes
or in the hands of a thick-lipped Moor.

i’ve decided that i will write
about you the way frida
wrote about diego
i love you and i wish
you never existed

La Llorona

(ce poéme écrit après avoir écouté la chanson est
dédié à Frida Kahlo et à Joan Baez)

Sur les remparts de Tenochtitlan
tu ne sors qu'à la nuit couchante
les nuits ou la lune est orange tourne
rouge de sang et d'amertume.
Tu fais briller ta chevelure
de geai, tel un diamant noir,
ton nom est "Llorona la belle"
qui nous appelle de ses pleurs.
Et tente de nous attirer
Avec sa voix rauque et ses pleurs.

Tu annonces la venue de ceux
par qui la mort doit advenir.
Car telle est ta prophétie
magicienne, du Monde Indien.
Surtout passant, ferme les yeux
et retiens ton amour naissant
car la Llorona ne vient pas
pour te serrer dans ses bras
et te donner sa douce peau,
Ni te couvrir de baisers.

Elle se fait messagère de malheur.
Et annonce les temps nouveaux
D’où surgiront les hommes barbus, bardés de fer
avec ces animaux fabuleux
Et leur bâton de foudre et de tonnerre
qui tuent mieux que la guerre fleurie.
Son chant est hymne funèbre
ou la prophétie s'accomplit
dans les cliquetis d’acier,
la maudite soif de l’or
et le feu des bûchers.

Garde toi de suivre « la pleureuse »
qui t'annonce les jours maudits,
ou le sang indien va couler
et le Peuple être mis en servage.
Loran ta beauté est venin
cartes présages sont les flèches
que nous lancent les "temps nouveaux".
Pleurons, tous, notre liberté
et les jours de cendre venus,
et la chute des Dieux serpents.

Paul Arrighi, Toulouse

When she was 6,
Her wildest dream was to be an astronaut.
Her mom always told her to reach for the stars,
To dream bigger than life
Because she can be anything she wanted to be as long as she was happy.
When she went to her first day of grade school,
The teacher asked the kids to introduce themselves -
Name, age, and goal in life-
And when they flowed out of her mouth like a waterfall,
Spilling into the air with no way of turning back,
The boys giggled and told her that,
"Girls can't be that! That's a guys' job!"
The teacher made no effort to scold them,
Only telling her to ignore their constant teasing
And keep her ambitions to herself because
"Girls can't do that."
When she left that idea behind on the sidewalk of broken dreams,
A wall rose up from the ground
And caged her heart.
She found a haven in art,
Choosing to drown herself in an assortment of paints and oils.
She created beauty from an abyss of "No-you-can'ts" and "you're-a-girl-so-you-cant-do-thats"
But she still hesitated to show her talent to the world,
Wondered why boys always brought up the fact that most of the successful artists were men.
Everything they always told her kept ringing in her ears,
Like how alarms always sound and you can't ever get it out of your head.
She found a demon in her haven,
Found out that sometimes even the most beautiful things can have a dark side
Like how the moon always has a face not illuminated by the sun,
And she forgot how to create beauty.
When she lost all her inspiration to dream big,
To create art,
She cried to her mother,
Tried to find her 6-year-old self in the arms of her creator.
"We age like trees,
Have layers like an onion,
And every time you grow,
We add another ring to our skin.
Peel back the layers and you'll find your inner 6-year-old,
Young and restless
With eyes full of love for life.
Peel the skin back even more,
Like how a hangnail stands out next to your nail,
And peel it back even though it hurts and it bleeds crimson and smells like iron.
We're all aged and different,
All of different genders,
But don't ever be ashamed of being a girl,"
Is what her mother would tell her,
And she'd continue with,
"Don't ever let anyone tell you that being a girl,
A woman,
Is something to be ashamed of.
Don't ever let anyone tell you that you can't do what you want
Simply because you have physical differences.
Babies come from the womb of women,
Children nestle into their mother's ******* when they fall asleep,
Mothers of all creatures care for their young ones until they're fully grown,
So don't ever think that women can't do anything,
Because they can.
Baby, the first woman to ever be in space was a Russian named Valentina,
A word that stood for brave.
I didn't name you brave,
But you could be an astronaut if you wanted to.
Frida Kahlo was a famous artist,
And her name stood for beauty,
But, baby, if you wanted to, you could piece the world together with your bare hands.
My mother, your grandmother,
Her name stood for queen,
And she was the best thing I've ever seen walk on this planet.
My grandmother stood boldly next to her loved one's casket,
And she shed not one tear,
So tell me why it's a burden to be a girl."
When she was 6,
She wanted to be everything she could be,
But everyone always put her down for being a girl.
The insult of being a woman still rung in her ears even now,
A decade older,
Ten years wiser,
More rings embedded in her skin.
It still stung,
Like wounds being opened again only to flush it down with alcohol trying to make the pain go away,
She still heard them curse at her for being a girl,
A full grown woman now,
And she'll still cry like she did before,
Crying to find her inner 6-year-old,
Young and innocent
With dreams of gold,
And she'll peel back her layers,
Taking longer than before,
But always going back to the roots that being a girl isn't all that bad.
She's older now,
With frown lines on her face instead of wrinkles crinkling around her smile,
And all she could dream about is
Rewinding time
And being a 6-year-old girl again

It is you whom I love today. I love you with all my loves.*
Frida Kahlo

screaming gold and exulting light
I betrayed the sunset today
still life without promises the city
there comes that tone again
in the storehouses of flesh
where life dreams itself
you’ve colonized me
with hate and desire
unstable tempo
my eyes blind
like a storm without wind
I disfigured some light today
its unpretended beauty
no paradox
not even a surprise
I fall for these wounds, your burden
the taste of failure
the panic of not knowing
the trembling of your feet
no need for signifying something
for an ending or a touch
there is love without desire
desire without love
you can call me crazy
if this is all
you can say
at the end of the day

Women are the vessels that hold life
for Nine 1/2 weeks like Kim Basinger
Call me Mickey.

Women adorned Da Vinci paintings with a half smile
martyrs in the flames of freedom
Call me Joan.

Women that nurture life
the greatest man to ever walk our path
call me Mary.

-and yet we’re reduced to calling them “*****”
because our male brains can’t reach to nothing more.

Women in revolutionary trenches
artist, poets, our strongholds, mend no fences
call me Frida.

Women our souls, our backbones
endless spinal chords that keep us up
call me Theresa.

-and yet “*****” is the word that dominates our tongues
when we refer to them.

Women the leaders, the warriors
the fighters, the valor of the coward
call me Cleopatra.

Women the lovers, the pleasers
that feed us and keep us up on our feet
call me Anne Boleyn.

-and yet “*****” infiltrated our vocabulary
like a terminal cancer, let’s get rid of it.

This note is to you.
The you with swollen eyes,
the you with mascara dripped tears,
the you who has had a bad day,
the you who hasn't slept peacefully for nights,
the you who has lost hope.

I have read about Frida Kahlo and Helen Keller.
I have read the stories of these fierce women.
I don't know them, I've never met them.
But I've known you and met you,
And you are my hero.

Strong and unapologetic.
At the same time, elegant and true.

Don't you let anyone or anything
****** that title away from you.


Sayali

stencils of my mind are placed onto parchment paper
they slide off the wax like bold black drops of ink
they roll and wobble to the perimeter of which jagged teeth have bitten the sheet
thouroughly slipping. thouroughly off. complete.
a flicker instant shadow peers over  drawn lines
confused of which is north and which is south; tangled in yarn and straws of twine.
configure me a format of what you think is necessary
for me to harness and cultivate like grapes of wrath and frida's portrait of sorrow and conformity.