When I was just a little girl,
And as little girls were taught then,
I played with dolls and a teaset,
Made mudcakes for food,
Wore skirts, made my hair into ponytails as I was let.
I saw the boys with the abandon which comes with free wear and play,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.

When I was older, a teen
and as teen girls were taught then,
Walk, talk, rock softly
Don’t draw too much attention
Or attempt to explore too much.
I saw the boys then with the abandon which comes with freedom to play, sit, be as they want  ,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.

When I was sixteen, oh sweet sixteen,
And as sixteen year old girls were taught then,
Don’t wear clothes that show your frame,
That’s indecent and you will be in another home and will incur alot of blame.
Don’t wander, argue, or express an opinion,
You’re a girl, being humble, quiet and gentle becomes you.
I saw the boys then with the abandon which comes with freedom of movement and speech,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.

When I was older, and passionately sought a particular career,
I was admonished as many other girls in my time,
It’s not a career for women, late nights, more men to be around,
When you get married, that’s not going to work and troubles will abound.
I saw the boys then with the abandon which comes with the  freedom of pursuing their dreams,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.

When I was married, and setting a home, working  and raising a family,
I left my work as many other girls in my time,
For my husband to follow his work path,
Unquestioningly, unflinchingly, resolutely.
I saw the men then with the abandon which comes with freedom of being in control of their lives,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.

But this is just the surface of my questioning being a girl,
When boys and men around tried their stunts on girls and women,
I questioned my existence.
When many girls and women I know,
Were told to stay mum on men close who took advantage of them
I questioned my existence.
When In the workspace,
Women got paid less than men because their salary were subtly looked at as secondary salaries,
Or needed to speak louder to be heard,
I questioned my existence.
When the onus of keeping a relationship working  was the woman’s responsibility largely,
I questioned my existence.
When a woman got hit by her spouse,
Its she who may have provoked him.
When a man strayed,
Its she who was not a good enough wife that he had to look elsewhere.
I questioned my existence.

The atrocities many men are capable of,
The filth many men spread,
****, hate, aggression, manipulation and more
Abuse, gaslighting inside closed doors,
Wearing a mask of sophistication outside
Animalistic and entitled beings to the core.

My apologies to men who are not,
And I know some,
But they are but a handful,
Too insignificant in the larger way the world works.

But then I see me,
A harbinger of change,
In my home and around.
Raising my son differently,
Advocating for change purposively,
Actioning resolutely what’s right,
Woman for women with all my might.
I see so many more women now who retain their selves and are beacons of hope,
They don’t sit around and just mope.

And I am glad I am a girl,
And I question no more,
I question no more.

Blip. Blip. Blip
In the black of my room a red light pulses langorously on my phone
Steady green and blue lights and a rapid orange define the router across the room
Red digital numbers stand in the place of the clock
At precisely 6:00 am my alarm goes off(a deranged rooster entrapped in my phone)
A flick of a finger dismisses the crowing and the day has begun
After dressing and any other trivial task, I  am headed downstairs
A chik of the toaster
One beepbeepbeep of the microwave
More digital numbers, this time green, indicate that my bus comes shortly and I dash off
The headlights of the bus announce its presence half a block before it halts and the doors jerkily slide open
I text Graham from five feet away, because I don't yet know enough sign language
On the bus the driver may make an announcement, various lights and a few wires around her seat
School starts with a bell and the mindless herd shuffles in
The hallways bustle with the noise of teenagers chatting noisily, ipods playing, cells buzzing, beeping, texting
Homeroom and every period after is marked by a bell before and after until the last bell, freeing us from our institution of education
Now everyone is really alive and the clammer of sounds is three times as loud as the morning.
On the bus all but the most obnoxious are silent, closed off in their little world of a cellphone, ipod, or mp3
The kids file on and off the bus, only waking from their technology induced zombification to rapidly vocalize with their friends
Once I get home microwave humms as food is reheated or quickly cooked
The rice cooker is prepped and light flips on when plugged into the wall
Coffee maker may be set, and if my dad is home, his workspace is humming and light-pulsing as well
Brother and sisters argue over which tv show to watch or first computer turn while I'm wrapped up in my world of texting homework and poetry
Mom arrives from school and dinner is made
Stove humming loud and food stirfryed
Dinner no blips beeps or pulses matter, just the clinking of silverware and conversation
Afterwards, faucet runs dishes clattering while I wash
Imersion resumes and videos, games, and homework take over until bed
Teeth are brushed, pajamas donned, and members of this family mess around in bedroom before slowly transitioning to bed, and then sleep
So ends another day for me in the 21st century

Crazy chick that I work with,
How are you today? Calm the **** down.
You’re a mess - not that anything’s wrong with that.
But you’re in my workspace, which is not your workspace.
Also, your mouth babble, eye gestures and body jerkins seem
To indicate that you wish to communicate; alas, could you
Coherently convey an idea, who would want to receive it?
Please vacate the workspace and return to yourspace.
Have a nice day.

orange sweater with wrinkled sleeves
it fits you perfectly. it looks like it was taylored to your measurements perfectly
i bought it about a year ago
let you wear a part of me i felt safe in
worn proudly you are the boy that i thought would never
i painted a picture of you in my head in which you were perfect
i had sculpted each pore perfectly
placed each thread of your hair on your head but
i guess i must have done something to mess up because the perfect picture i painted
dripped with wet unset paint
on top of me suffocating, i couldn’t move
i could only see your chest covered in the stupid orange sweater
tongue deep down my throat with your hand on my neck
your face is dripping on mine this wasn’t who you were supposed to be
it hasn’t been longer than a week but the days drag on years and pull on gods ears and beg for more time to pass but less and less goes by
never ending i feel like i’m stuck
im in an artblock
your face is gone but it was just there i must have misplaced the brush that i drew your short eyelashes with
whimpering you are but why, was it something i did?
my paint brushes are all intact and my workspace is clean
how could i have messed up
the painting with the orange sweater delicate brown eyes and thick bleach hair is dripping
off the canvas
i haven’t done much other than wait for you to dry our before i can add more on to you
but you won’t dry and you’re on top of me
my neck is wet with the saliva you won’t stop touching me
no i said i would take a break from this canvas but it’s encasing me i cannot leave
i messed up havent i
wonder why i did to deserve this
im using my fingers to put your streaky smile back in place don’t look at me like that please
i have to ask for you to leave i cannot stand the shade of orange you’re wearing being on top of me
please leave
im letting you out to dry

in the same position i can’t move
my neck is casted by guilt i must have done something wrong
looking back that couldn’t have been you
it must have been the wrong medium
your acrylic is dry and patched you couldn’t have torn me down like the thin canvas dripping with trauma filled sweat
no because you would never let yourself wear something mine while you took myself from my own body
right?
youre the boy i painted over and over in my head just to get you right
hold my hand let’s go for a walk hold me tight because the wind against my cheek causes a shiver down my spin
lift my head up to glance at the intentional light because you know i’m scared of looking down at the petrifying dark
but you burned my eyes and i am no longer mine the painting is ruined and i can’t fix it
but that’s not who i planned for you to be you would never do that because i don’t mess up the watercolor goes on thick paper while you go on premeditated canvas
was it me?
have i misread but i do not misread i am not an idiot it’s not my fault you chose to do this yet i cant not feel this in my chest
im a failed artist with a body stolen in disgust
i want my orange sweater with wrinkled sleeves back

“Ever since I started this job and anyone asks how I’m doing, I always say, ‘I’m great!’ ” Maayan Zilberman excitedly explains. And why shouldn’t she? The former Lake & Stars lingerie designer, who has since founded confections lineSweet Saba, happens to have the sweetest career around. Concocting a literal visual feast out of her Park *****, Brooklyn, kitchen and Fort Gansevoort Meatpacking pop-up shop, the Israeli-born polymath uses her background in sculpture and a biting sense of humor to create her vibrant, indulgent delicacies. Think sugarfied tubes of lipstick, rap mixtapes, and Rolex watches—with their raw handiwork and dead-on wit, these in-demand pieces match Zilberman’s equally enticing wardrobe. Hardly barefoot in the kitchen, Zilberman teeters about in her workspace in vintage Betsey Johnson Mary Janes, while throwing on a customized Adam Selman pearl-laced apron to protect her Prada skirts andProenza Schouler knits. Here, the dazzling candymaker reveals how she has always been more En Vogue than grunge, why she never forgoes a perfect press-on manicure, and her plans on taking Sweet Saba herbal.

From Jerusalem to Vancouver

I was born on a kibbutz, where the first clothing I had was a mix of unisex hand-me-downs, so I was given a pretty blank slate. When I lived in Jerusalem we were surrounded by several sects of Orthodox communities, and the fabrics associated with each group were inspiring to me. During those years, designer brands were becoming popular, and the only place I was seeing this was in the shuk [market] where one could find imitation Calvin Klein and United Colors of Benetton next to tzitzit and shawls. I think it was in the early ’90s that I first understood how to mix my ethnicity with fashion and food.

Also, one of the most influential books of my childhood was Color Me Beautiful, which the women in my family took very seriously. I learned at the age of 6 that I was a “Winter” and haven’t veered off course since. I still have the book and love to pull it out at parties. Later in high school in Vancouver, grunge was the big trend and there wasn’t much room for my sensibilities in that environment—even when I wore my Revlon Blackberry lipstick and grunged out with irony. I was always far more En Vogue and Versace than the Pacific Northwest could handle.

Taking Cues From ’90s New York City Street Style

When I first got to New York, when I was 15, one of the first things I discovered was all the music I could get on Canal Street. I used to buy mix CDs from girls in monochrome outfits and big name-plate earrings. They pointed me to Fulton Mall in Brooklyn, and that’s where I finally got pants that fit right and jewelry that reflected my personality—a departure from the stuff I’d received for my bat mitzvah.

A shift in style for me meant a tougher, more confident look, where a short skirt is a reference to an era, not a call for attention. Music and lyrics played a big part in teaching me about how to dress and how to feel feminine. I had a Versace quilted skirt that I wore a lot—it made me feel like the supermodels in the ad campaigns: Cindy, Claudia, Stephanie, et cetera. I also had a Jean Paul Gaultierdouble-breasted pinstripe suit that I’d wear casually. In fact, I’m still wearing most of my clothes from those days: Betsey Johnson floral dresses, Donna Karanbodysuits, a metallic Byblos pouf skirt, and a grommeted Pelle Pelle jacket.

Lingerie Beginnings

I studied sculpture at the School of Visual Arts, and for a year at the San Francisco Art Institute my major was “new genres,” a very ’90s thing. Right after I graduated from SVA, I did an artist residency with Ilya Kabakov at the Fondazione Antonio Ratti in Como, where they also manufactured some of the world’s most beautiful silks. A tour of their factory opened my eyes to a potential dip into fashion, but it wasn’t until I met a pair of women in New York City that same year looking to start a lingerie brand that I took a chance on garment design. I bought a bunch of bras and took them apart and figured out how they were put back together. I cofounded The Lake & Stars in 2007 with the desire to make a brand that was in line with the story I wanted to tell as an artist. Lingerie was a tool, a structure that gave me rules so I could tell a sci-fi tale while inherently delivering romance and *** appeal.

read more:http://www.marieaustralia.com

www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

The humid, stiff air in the room
Being broken by the squeaking fan
Shaking violently at full speed
The florescent lights three, shining bright
It all comes here, back to the room
My place of solitude

With what I see, I draft a sketch
(and not how it should be)
I fill details, with all your loves
minutiae like Versailles, and such
colour here, a sculpture
there, a broken heart, alcoves
wainscotted with toil(e). some
envy carvings, poetry: a decoupage
of words,
said over years, re-cited
into countless tears,
ripened ensilage and patterns
recognised surprise,
through my hand I trace a line.
How I see, what I beget, is
defined as mine
stand and be yourself
through traffic, silence, and mindset
and if you don’t remember, know
that I do.not forget.

***** you look like you drink black coffee, coffee, coffee
If you valued your face, your bones you would back up off me, off me, off me
***** you look like you drink black coffee
So cold and black on the inside
Trying to appear nice and warm on the outside

You are nothing but a stupid ***** bore
Come on ***** keep your ill-temper and hateful spew down
No one wants to fall victim to your turmoil and bitchiness when you’re around
When you come in, go straight to your office
Everything that is evil, chaotic, and wrong in this place, you’re the culprit
Give me all the blank angry stares and unsympathetic words you got because you’re such a ***** bore and you don’t like my edgy style
Come on, let’s keep bumping heads, and make this place worth my while
***** you look like you drink black coffee
I can’t stand to look at your face, when I do my anger begins
When I first met you, I knew you be a ***** like that
You ******* bore
You ******* ***** bore
I can feel round two coming on, you’re coming back for more
You’re as dull and evil as they come
Humor, fun, and excitement is obviously not where you come from
My fist, your head, the desk
Let’s put this ***** bore to rest
Let’s get excited
Come on
***** you look like you drink black coffee
We don’t want no *****, ***** bore ruining are workspace anymore
Let’s not stop revolting until the tyranny is over
We are taking over
You stupid ******* ***** bore

And she walks around like we’re so inferior to her, oblivious to the fakeness and tyranny she puts us through
And tells us we should be grateful for all that she do
But you’re not going to back me up against a wall with nothing in my hands
***** you better back it up, back it up, back it up right now
Your time is coming, the end is near
How disappointing, how disappointing
So much time wasted in despair
Now whose back is against the wall
You’re still cold, so cold
***** you look like you drink black coffee
You stupid ******* ***** bore
******* ***** bore

Silence is needed .

Silence is a massive part of your brainstorming session .
Let it be your studies , your workspace , your next project session or about your love .
And by love I didn't mean it to be a human being only .
Love is a strong possession , which can be about your newly bought Fountain pen or can be about your new social innovation .
But silence is needed , for making you stronger and your presence to be valuable .
Silence should be there as pure bliss , to give you a thought of match making .
Do you remember , how much you inhaled with silence and those breezy nights ?
Just cherish once about them and think where you were before some days and where are you now ; standing all alone and strong challenging all the facets of truth and society .
Yes , silence is needed .

Chaos can't always bring you to the path where you desired to end up with .

Silence doesn't make you socially introvert . It gives you the space for differentiating between you and what you will be .
Ask one poet or a writer or any person who loves to think at the end of the day , 'what is silence for them ? How much does it matter to them?'
Then come back to me and say again .... " I hate silence."
Silence is subjective . It is needed , but not always . And that also doesn't signify chaos should occupy the space .

Silence is needed to make space in those beautified chaotic nature .

Diseased again , in the middle of May,
Almost threateningly fatal.
Dormant dimmed brain of mine,apt and inviting prey,
Been demented since awful April!

Earnestly eager to get healed,
I've enacted the preposterous tribal dance to the write(right) gods and appealed.
They unmistakably ignored my pleas,
and my mind still remains stuck,stagnant ,in a frigid freeze.

Changed my workspace to the garden,
To **** in the fresh air,clear my brain and brighten.
Result: Chewed half a pencil,
******* alien patterns in the muck,and a weak wasted writers' will.

Countless imaginary "stories" with no beginnings,
Right Brain-dead till late evenings.
Waiting on this blasted writers' block to clear soon,
Hopefully,the rains should clean the slates, in Judicious June.

We know the importance of sleep for our health and appearance. But when it comes to getting at least eight hours of quality sleep, this is easier said than done. You could be tempted to watch that late night movie, or read one last chapter in that book.

For many of us, the goal of sleeping at 9 or 10pm may appear elusive. Many sleep at a decent hour but suffer from bouts of insomnia.

It pays to learn how to sleep. Ever wondered why babies and children have such beautiful skin? Research shows skin cell regeneration doubles at night and peaks between 11pm and 4am. Sleep deprivation leads to inflammation and oxidative stress which contributes to aging.

Here are some tips on how to sleep better:

1. Control your exposure to light

To maintain a good sleep-wake cycle, expose yourself to natural light during the day, and complete darkness when you go to sleep. If you work indoors, try to get at least half an hour of sunlight during the day. Let as much natural light into your workspace or home as possible.

At night, avoid bright screens within two hours of your bedtime. Switch off all lights, wifi, and electronics in your bedroom. Rather than using the television to wind down, read a book or listen to an audio recording.

Invest in dark-out curtains to ensure the room is completely dark. If you wake up during the night and need to move around, use a dim light.

2. Maintain a regular sleep schedule

Sleeping and waking up at the same time each day, helps to optimise the quality of your sleep. If you need to make up for a sleep debt, take a nap during the day, rather than sleeping in past your usual wake-up time. Once you’re getting enough sleep, you won’t need an alarm clock to wake you in the morning.

3. Watch what you eat and drink

Caffeine can cause sleep problems therefore try to avoid coffee, chocolate, and tea after lunch. A nightcap may help you fall asleep. However, it interferes with your sleep cycle by waking you up in the middle of the night.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

How long has it been?
Did I sleep the storm away?
What time is it?*

A disorienting headache alarms me awake,
The wind at my back nudges me to life.
Hungover,
Culturally removed and it's all over again.

The past can't exist here,
Childhood memories are a fiction.
Friends are forgotten stories scattered,
About my brain like the workspace of a maniac.

Am I that far removed?
Have I grown enough that I don't fill the old space?
Such elation and sorrow combine in misery,
And it's hard to believe that home disappears.

I wish no one missed me like I don't.
The man you see standing in the same door frame,
He passed through at all ages,
He has new eyes that you won't recognize.
For they don't see the world like you do.

One last country,
One last break through the clouds,
One last chance to make myself right?

Does my stack of thoughts grow taller yet,
Through dreams of experiences I never regret?
And did home stand still while I was gone?
Life, I suppose, has to keep moving on.

I laid down my fears
and took up a new Spear
I took hold of a mind-set
that said I’m not done yet

I swallowed my bitter
and grabbed something better
not just mindful of me
more mindful of others

I stopped pushing away
started having my say
pushing on through
and I found a new way

When anxiety said ‘No’
I said 'What do you know?'
There’s much more outside
this comfortable zone

I’ve found a safe space
where I can relate
where I can be heard
where I am embraced

where I can be me
where I can be seen
to take up my place
in my chosen workspace

Where are all the old
poets?
White beards with pockets
as empty
As the eyes of the ol bums
on 5th ave.
Daughters whose fingers grew heavy
with gold.
Whose skin went cold like
morning
Coffee in the breeze.

They still scribble verses
a-plenty.
On bathroom stalls, arms and
napkins.
They stay drunk on wine from
the corner store.
And make sweet love in apartment
darkness.
Only when the rain comes do they
wander.

Their notes & teeth have
yellowed.
And the bright boys now have
strange names.
Henry & Lester & Edgar & Frederick
& Vincent St. Clair.
Whose food stamps were used on
junk food banquets.
Their cats don't even call them
"friend."

Dangerous Betty whispers into her
notebook.
She has been in the kitchen
all day.
which is also her bedroom, also her workspace,
also her home.
And the door cries out a good "knock, knock,
knock."
She answers the call but finds no one
humble.

Seven old dogs tear through
the garbage.
Old lists, letters, Valentine's Day
love poems.
One reads, "Your ***** as
a Blossom."
One is blank except for "Dearest
Matthew," Dated 1983.
Six dogs scratch & snap while one chokes
on an insincere apology.

At 7:59 AM the street is
Morning bloom.
Men in suits call each other
"sir."
A mother pumps gas for $10 an
hour.
At 8:01 AM the show is
over.
Somewhere in the air are children's
voices.

I sit down in my workspace
With dread on my mind
I'm exhausted beyond belief
But to give up would be out of line

A memory creeps up from behind
Sensing my pain
A storm of happiness emerged
To brighten my day

The call is on
This storm's force is getting strong
It'll help me break the weather
And keep me together

The storm grows, and water flows
From my eyes down to my nose

I really forgot why I was still running, still running, still running

Go
My brain says
Go
This storm
will grow


With the speed of the wind
And a strength like thunder

Go
This storm will
Grow
So I have to follow

This storm will
Grow
So I have to follow

This storm caused a grin
a grin like no other

Go
This storm will
Grow
So I have to follow

This storm will
Grow
So I have to follow

This storm will
Grow
So I have to follow

This storm will
Grow
So I have to follow


The storm left me even though I ran after it, but not without
leaving me with a smile, and possibly a flood warning for my eyes 0.0

I was a sweet kid, a happy child, I remember I was almost always smiling, you know except when my fathers belt came off because back then that was the norm and it hurt and it was scary and it was what it was but I survived and whatever damage that may have done isn't as bad as what I have done to myself since then.  Apparently there were a few other times I wasn't always smiling back then that I don't recall, one time in particular, a story my step mother loves to tell and in all truth I like hearing, is that one day, back around kindergarten or first grade, I had a stray dog follow me home from school and when I got to the gate of our front yard I started to yell profanities at this floppy eared creature.  Profanities that neither my step mother or I can guess how or who I would have learned them from at that age... but the story makes me laugh and smile like I use to in my childhood and its such an absurd thing to picture me back then being angry and mad and yelling at some poor dog for doing nothing more than keeping me company on my walk home.  I can't find anything on the surface of my memory to complain about when looking back to when I was naive and happy.  My father worked swing shifts or graveyard shifts and I thought graveyard shift meant he worked in a graveyard.  He even had a work ID were he was wearing a werewolf mask and had me convinced he was a werewolf.  I lived with him during school days and spent many weekends with my mom and she did all the fun stuff.  Camping, fishing, flying kites and parks and all that childhood goofing off summer day type stuff.  She made jokes and pulled pranks and was deathly afraid of snakes and I loved her and my father.  My father taught me how to be a good person, he showed me the difference between the false idealism of being a manly man over the greater reward of being a gentleman, one being sincerely concerned with the well being of others and the other being self centered and hollow in anything but the pursuit of his own satisfaction.  My mom helped too, but she was more of the wild card and the humor councler of my life.  They both always encouraged what ever my young mind thought I would want to do in life, they both showed belief in me.  Something I failed to learn how to do for myself as a became of an adult age, which was no fault of theirs.  
I can't explain or pinpoint where or what day the smiles became less frequent and the happy child drew itself back into the folds of memory past and out of present day.  I'm not miserable, I don't hate my life... I can honestly say and express gratitude for my life up to this day.  There has been far more good than bad, more friends than enemies and annoyances, more love than heartache, even if just by a little... My nights may be restless more often than not, but I've never been one to enjoy in the overindulgence of sleep and have always preferred the minutes of the moon over the hours of the sun.  
In all honesty, I'm nothing more than a goofy kid in an adult body... but still it feels like something is missing.  Some part of me is out of synch.  I have my to do list, my road to the mountain of things I want to accomplish before I'm buried or burned or sleeping at the bottom of a lake with no one knowing that I've passed on.   I have dreams of high ambition... unfortunately my motivation seems to be sleeping in.   It use to be easier to sit down and illustrate and paint and dance and sculpt and go from one thing to another... I have enough work to do stored in my sketch pads and head that I don't have to worry about running low or not having anything to do next.  Procrastination however seems to be my strongest characteristic... if it wasn't I wouldn't have written this because honestly, I don't know what I'm doing and I never had.  It just use to never get in the way before and now it's scattered all over my workspace and I can't scrub it off my desk and I can't shake it out of my bones and I just laze on the couch and watch it eat the time I should be using to get back on the road towards the mountain... tomorrow though right?

I use your urn
I use the heart shaped velvet box I keep your urn in
to prop my phone up during therapy.
A choice I may choose to examine.

I keep it in my “workspace”,
a workspace I neglect
until it is time for therapy.
telehealth with Sherri Steele,
a professional


It’s a place so hard for me to be,
to think, to straighten up.
Sealed letters, dried flowers, undeveloped film.

then I walk away when it’s over.


There’s a secret
I do not disclose


to Sherri
or myself


In lucid moments I can see
the shade you colored my life when you left.
Out of focus, still on my mind

a crushed, pale blue.

Dance with the devil with
two chicken feet,
spilled beans
pills reeking of sin,
braided veins, clenching fists,
the Lord is my shepherd when
I'm the sheep,
manifesting brethren and manifestos
of governments,
depopulation of educated slaves,
drink from the cup that
defines your worth,
***** lips, thoughts in braille,
diabetic oldies and cabbages,
dead fetuses and tomatoes,
manhood and eggplants,
sterile women eating omelets,
abandoned kids eating goat meat,
buried underneath slubs,
subscribe to the notifications
of corrupted media,
mutating phobias, the feared is
the victim.
Poets and marijuana,
writers' block and emotionless poems,
******* eating molds,
fungus and bacteria foams.
Hide righteousness in a cloak,
dangling nerves have strangled
our generation!!!

Club Controller;
Boom bap,
*** shaking,
wombs filled with ghosts of babies,
Ovaries now main ingredients for corporate omelets.
Adam and Eve,
the dominant and the submissive,
Bitten forbidden fruit on Apple logos.
Artificial intelligence,
human negligence,
mummified peasants,
death is proud of its workspace.
Institutions judging
black ops as being too rebellious for success,
stores selling tumours
and diabetes symptoms.
Atheists and theists fighting in poetry pieces.
Innocent citizens dodging bullets whilst diving into graves,
mortuary polluted with the smell of corpses with gunpowder in small spaces.
Free our souls,
stop polishing the chains that shackle us,
remove handcuffs that have extended to our throats whilst we dangle from Amarula branches.
Deceived intellectuals,
searching for Nirvana in cannabis trips,
mocking poetry,
seeing Shakespeare as a founding father.
Deception poeticized,
corruption politicized!
The truth is my artery,
wisdom is my capillary,
poetry is the hidden mos code in my fingerprints.
Poetry is the stem to
ascend truth into the human language,
use it for no social
media whilst
marketing for likes!!!

caricature sketch of person best known to yours truly

What began as an honest
to goodness attempt
to craft personal truthful profile
evolved into a fictional poem
manifested into the following.

Despite the onslaught of paparazzi,
I (an eccentric kindhearted sexagenarian -
born January xiii, mcmlix
at The Christ Hospital
within Mount Auburn, Ohio)
instantaneously shied, blinked away
from the spot (klieg) lights,
and avoided crowdsource
most of my iv and lx orbitz

round the earth mainly on account
of being gifted with introvertedness
somewhat minimized by bottle fed
powder milk then subsequently
licking, gnawing (actually gumming),
and chomping on biscuits,
which magical and top secret ingredients
(heavily guarded courtesy

Norwegian bachelor farmers)
gave this once painfully shy person
indomitable, formidable,
and creditable courage
to face fearful fixes
such as getting up out of bed
first thing in the morning
and crafting a poem..

Posthumous fame and fortune
will launch then rocket
one veritable unknown
aspiring, inspiring, outgoing
and unflagging wordsmith
(legend in his own mind)
unwittingly slated to shunt
next of kin into the pantheon
of storied poets even feeble attempts

at his mediocre reasonable rhymes
feebly attempting to communicate
a not so stellar existence punctuating
(while dragon coccygeal tailbone pronounced
along the boulevard of broken dreams),
a battle of life waged
against being trumpeted
as some freak of nature
(a controversial incontrovertible

standard compact prodigal son)
birthed courtesy éminence grise
famous prolific father,
who begat him -
unnamed de jure heir
to the family fortune/empire -
longevity of libido potion,
when said parent a centenarian
far beyond (where's the beef)
viz chronological virility age

severely testing scant minority,
when seething hormonal fluid
loosed into chamber of secretes
(think fecund female) and pushing
biological envelope in situ regarding
outer limits when males can still procreate
versus majority doddering, hobbling,
and lobbying along lovely bones,
when their get up and go got up and went
into those twilight zone of years.

Invariably many an older gent
sought to lay claim as doppelgänger
of humble fellow, whose countless progeny
incorporated a zip code unto themselves,
and for an unnamed dollar figure
(one comprising many zeros and commas)
small dollop would be sold to highest bidder.

Meanwhile, or until
that futuristic manifest destiny
I currently sequester myself within
cupboard workspace
within one bedroom man cave
labeled b44 as flickering candlelight
casts dark shadows across the outer limits
of the twilight zone
soon to silently pronounce
the figurative curtain call

on another mundane day,
no different than previous,
nor promising variation
on a theme of ennui
(self quarantine against 10000 maniacs)
following twenty four hour time frame
witnessed by mine feeble scratchings
across the rocky surface doing double duty
as crude table and writing surface
since yours truly lacks
for paper pencil or electronic device.

Lack of formal education
found me forced to teach yours truly
reading, writing, and arithmetic
while I hibernate until the conclusion
of total mortal kombat
allows, enables, and provides me
chance close encounters of the third kind
ideally to be fruitful and multiply
amidst dystopian landscape.

This quarantine is going to make murderers out us:
Making us stay with annoying siblings 24/7,
Clean every part of the house three times a day,
Complete our parents' projects because they're too lazy,
And complete schoolwork in a workspace that isn't comfortable.

Maybe it's just me.

Just me who has panic attacks every day because I can't escape,
Who can't do what calms me down because it isn't "adult-like,"
Who is criticized by family for reading comics, "reading anime" as they call it,
Who is yelled at for not getting out of my room when all I do in there is sleep at night like everyone else,
Who is put down by everyone in my life except for the pleasant few,
But of course, I can only see them at school and guess what's closed until the next year.

I can't stay like this.
Insanity growing,
Tears flowing,
Heart slowing,
Not knowing,
Who's going,
To die by my hand first.