objectification is very much a cul de sac,
it's a one way street...
      to objectify is to
       allow an animate object a
confirmation of an all-pervasive control...
objectification =
the inability of an object to become
a self-serving subject -
                  no hammer ever managed
to self-serve itself into a role of a screwdriver...
to be objectified is to have no
self-serving subject, i.e. a self;
         how can a woman ever be "objectified"
when she subjects herself to both
the object (that's her body) and  
              the subject (that's her mind) -
or, objects to the object stated -
  whereby by "objectification" there's
a reinforcement of being subject to the object...
her body, which reinforces her
                  subjectivity -
      when man is prone to objectification,
as pronouncing his extended members,
a woman is prone to subjection -
                           irony on the ob- prefix,
wasn't it ever reverse infatuation?
                  sure, not all the subplots appear
in being "objectified" -
                but at least being "objectified"
does not equate to being subject to a man's
will...
                 if you can't deal with
the "extremes": is being "objectified" as bad
as being subject to a niqab?!
                      besides the point,
i can't believe that one animate thing can
make another animate thing objectified -
            in the purest sense of:
    deeming an animate thing
            inanimate to be: a thing observed
without a self-serving self-aware ******.

It is everywhere
On the radio
In my friends' eyes
Right in front of me

It is part of life
The happy ending to every book
Part of life’s plan
What makes us human

It is a milestone
The progression of dating
Then marriage
And children

It is society’s solution
The one for sadness
For mental illness
To keep going when the world falls apart

It is why I am different
Unable to relate to the subplots in movies
To my friends' love lives
And will not ever have the option to

It is what the world will not understand
Why it calls me heartless
Unloving
And vile

It is inescapable
In the name of who I am
The name of my community
Aromantic

It is the reason I feel alienated
Because love is love
But I cannot love
At least not in the way the world wants me too

Once I'm no longer awake
I'm put into dire straits
by my mind state
lying to make
me crying great
until I find a gate
to my one true fate.

My mind puts me in high and hung spots
with murderous guys and subplots
or both my eyes forming blood clots
the maze of my mind must get unclogged
leading me towards the one solve
retreating to what I know best
retreating to drugs
I come down off the eagle's nest
and onto the rug
where I crawl like a slug
from the high flying bugs
who want to eat my insides
and only exist in mind.

My brain gives me visions
of the **** I used to live in
making me want to give in
to the syringe's incisions
trapped on a crashing plane
I find a needle
to silence my thrashing brain
I stab the steel
screaming this isn't real
but that's just how it feels
after countless drug deals
it's all my brain reveals.

My mind gives me an option:
to face it
or to run
I can't embrace it
like it's the sun
and I'm the one
Gatling gun
spinning spun
until the chore is done
and the war is won
so I can score my dub
and get nightmare numb.

Once I find bliss sedated
the terror will have dissipated
but when I awake this is hated
bringing back the mist that faded
and all the chaos it created.

I wake up in a cold sweat
ready to face the day
I don't know how cold it gets
but I bet it's here to stay.

Stories are who we are:
mysteries
dramas
tragedies
comedies.
Each has their own cliff hangers,
their twists and subplots
and the occasional well timed reveal.
They include story arcs that don't seem to add much to the overall narrative, but later
once we get to the next chapter
they begin to make sense.
Heroes, heroines and the occasional bad guy,
characters that pass through and are never heard of again
and some who stay to become integral to the final act.
And then there's book marks -
Giving us pause
for breath
for thought
before we plough on
to the next chapter.

Stories are who we are
and almost as if we collaborate
our stories together become richer
- they become epic
and they will be retold by those who follow.

Stories are who we are
and Jacqui's story is a best seller.

an old trapper keeper filled with some of my writings,
including 6 chapters of my very first attempt at writing a novel and
i remember the urgency i felt at the time to complete it
- ASAP!
because one of the subplots
involved the protagonist working toward marijuana legalization and
back in '93 with all the wisdom of my 27 years,
i just knew
- JUST KNEW!
that at the very least,
marijuana would certainly be decriminalized nationally  
in a matter of just a few short yrs
making that storyline
completely
obsolete

I want to be your star
Despite the ******* hole in my heart
I want to be your star
so I can benefit from that
I tried to leave the ward
But the ward holds me close at times
You will leave, you will leave
because you cannot handle me
I cannot handle myself!

Can you see above
our names written like I do
Can you see the lines intersecting - I do
Can you see us in the same ship
Are we? Are we?
What am I to you?

God knows I don't want to marry you
But I do want you

The sight of someone else
destroys me whole inside
The sight of you not envisioning what I see
makes me feel weak

And I put away everything for you
Do you see what I see?

wild thunder

She lies before me cradle-bound
You are of my blood not mine
but my sisters child.
I watch your sweet mouth form
milk soured smiles as you move.

I have dreamt of love
but only the love of women
not of this innocence
how could such innocence,
such pure beauty,
be born into this mad world.

with its plots of violence
and subplots of anguish?
the ice cold air in front
of the midsummer storm.
is pouring into the room.

the lace curtains billow like
spinnakers on a sailboat.
the fragile material
trying to protect you.
from the captured
ferocity o f the storm
what awaits you
as the clock ticks
and years roll by

what joys and sweetness
will you be holding
in your hands
what heartbeaks and bruises
will score your soul

the thunder blows apart
the storm clouds
allowing its deluge to fall
leaving me
protective of your sweetness

for unknown reasons
I want to leave you a legacy
hard earned
and marked with my own blood.

I wish for you to remember me
read my story and understand me
and not to leave incomplete
those things that I left undone.

Bold, big and bountiful, beautiful and blue,
Morning madness mix and match, masks become milieu,
Doleful day delusions deft, distraught and due,
Sad and salty subplots, salvo, shill and spew.