Inanimate smiles, like badly cut from
a magazine
                 photo
                         shopped
emotions that are moulded to the viewers liking.

This is how my empathy was shown for you
to
    see
          like I wasn't bothered by what you had done.


My face shone, like a shallow pool in the dark
with
     moonlit
              shadows caressing it and I was drowning.

Inanimate smiles, like badly cut from
a magazine
                 photo
                         shopped
emotions that are moulded after what you did to me.

My poem is my true selfie,
An X-ray of the inner me,
A snap-shot of reality,
A close-up of what's really me,
Un-shopped pixels of beauty.
Me.

her ring sits on the mantlepiece
worn thin on one side
that dull warm yellow
that gold sometimes takes on

i remember it cutting into my hand
as she held it tightly as we shopped
it was bright and shiny then

she used to wear it on her  longest finger
after dad left us, she left it off for awhile
and then wore it on the other hand

it was tight on her workworn hands then
she took it off again before she went into
this last home, but kept it locked in a security draw

now it sits on the mantlepiece, waiting
for me to find a safe place for it
for it is the little bit of my mother's spirit
that will one day be part of my son's  wedding ring,

The camera
        nevers lies
             but your smile
                  was photo shopped.

Trust =  faith, belief, hope, conviction, confidence, expectation, reliance

The sordid talk of “trust”…

A recent email communication has inspired me to research and clarify the word “TRUST”. What does trust mean to you? When you set your alarm at night, do you ‘trust’ that it will wake you up in the morning? What happens if one day, it doesn’t? Would you then ‘distrust’ your alarm clock? How many chances would the alarm clock have to fail you before you shopped for a new, more reliable one?

Do you ‘trust’ that someone received something you left for them, or do you follow up to ensure receipt?

The Doctor-Patient relationship is based on “TRUST”

I don't remember a time I 'trusted', truly trusted, anyone. That is until I began working with dear therapist. I was thinking about how it takes a lifetime to gain trust and only a moment to lose it....sadly.... And I was reviewing the times the word 'trust' has been written or spoken by DT in the past 5 years. I dare say he has written, or said, the "T" word more in the last five years than I've ever said in my entire life!

Examples: (as you can see, I'm all about the 'evidence' big grin)

DT said: it took you over a year to develop the  trust  to let me know some things directly from your words....
DT said: Give ME your hate - because I am not making the pain go away. I won't go anywhere if you do.  Trust  me.
DT said: I ask that you try to  trust  what I am saying here and continue to commit to this our work together.
DT said: I  trust  in you and the strength of our working relationship.
DT said: you can  trust  that I and others will be there to help and support.
DT said: You will continue to challenge my concern and trustworthiness because this is what you have needed to do to protect the fragile self that has over learned self-reliance.
DT said: I will not abandon you because you are only going to lean into "trust  and need" to the extent that you are not collapsing.
DT said: You are slowly growing in your capacity to tolerate these feelings in the presence of another  trusted  person - NOT AN EASY TASK!
DT said: I understand is a long process and  trust  /fear/shame is involved.
DT said: Building  trust  with others and within yourself takes a long time.....given your starting position.
DT said: I insist that we have the  trust  and honesty about how you are doing and what you need.
DT said: There is so much learning, relearning,  trusting,  questioning, testing that you are doing. I  trust  that you will give it your best and your best will be good enough
DT said: Rest your head and  trust  that you are safe in your space right now., no one is going to hurt you and you are wrapped in your blue blanket with my faith enclosed.
DT said: I accept your anger at me for this (not that I like it…) and I  trust  that we will continue to work through new challenges honestly.
DT said: As you learn to  trust  and open up with the shame and fears and we keep you fully in your body during these times
DT said: Fundamental  trust  in the therapy relationship can take years and you are getting there slowly and slowly is necessary…
DT said: make arrangements with 'best friend' or someone else you  trust  to take your meds and give you only enough for 2 days at a time.
DT said: I  trust  that you will bring your fears, needs and whatever else shows up.
DT said: you are in the middle of a giant, long term test of me and others on whom you might have some  trust.
DT said: If I gave that impression, then that was my own "stuff" getting in the way of  trusting  you in knowing what is best for you.
DT said: The nature of your  trust,  distrust, anger, perceived loss of me is a major "therapeutic" aspect of your healing and our work together.
DT said: you can  trust  that I and others will be there to help and support.

Wow! That's a WHOLE lotta "TRUST" to push and push and push....and then to shatter into a million pieces in only a moment....

Did DT teach me to "trust"? Yes, he did.

...but more importantly, he taught me that it isn't safe to trust anyone. Not even a therapist who extended a 'life-line' to you every single night for 2 years.

I "trust" that he isn't "here" tonight.

I trust that he discarded me and left me here alone to try to put back the shattered pieces of my life...by myself!!!

Just as he trusts I will make the best decision for myself. (that sounds to me like he has thrown the proverbial 'trust' ball back into my court)

Dear Therapist, I see your "trust" and I raise you a "discarded, shattered, afraid, little girl"...who, after 5 years and thousands of dollars working with you....is back to trusting no one. And more deeply wounded than ever. I trust that the knife in my back will hurt for years to come. And I trust that the bad taste in my mouth will remain after a few bottles of wine.

Trust....my new 'drinking' game...I will drink 1 glass of wine every time I hear, or read, the word 'trust'…I should be sufficiently drunk, or at least buzzed, the majority of the time!


**Trust....trust - no - one!

Regret & Remorse
Are photo-shopped
Pixels of fragmented
False memories.
Reboot.
Enjoy the whole show.

My momma went to Paris
She danced near the Eiffel Tower
She shopped at L'Oreal
She walked through the streets of the City of Lights

My daddy waited for his wife to come back from
dancing near the tower
shopping at L'Oreal
walking through the streets.

My sister, a waitress in a quaint Texas town
Waiting for the woman she adored to come back
to their little town.

But momma never came back.
She found a better life
dancing near the Eiffel Tower
shopping at L'Oreal
walking through the streets of the City of Lights.

She never made it
To Morocco
Rode ’cross the desert
With her Bedouin lover
Shopped for bargains
In the Souks of Rabat
Sipped mint tea
From a frosted glass.

She never went sailing
In a catamaran
And on a moonlit beach
Made love in the sand
Or drank espresso
In a café in Lima
Or danced the flamenco
In Puerto Rico.

She married a man
Cause no one else offered
Had three kids
And moved to the suburbs
Wrapped up her dreams
In brown butcher paper
Tied them with twine
And shelved them for later .

She never made it
To Morocco
Her life was four walls
Plastered in stucco
And she sighed as she thought
Of the things that she lost
The dreams that she wrapped
And shelved in the past.

If you give me long enough
I could paint a vivid portrait of myself
with every blemish and pore behind a brush,
and hush the voices that would criticize
unsubscribe and dance it up over in wonderland with the sycophants

put on my bedazzled pants
let the local singles know I'm a dancer
just a beating heart away
From being another square upon a lattice
a writhing mass of hair gel
and cologne working up the ladder to fuckboi status

Imma walk the line between
a marble arch eclipsing the sun
over an angel statue kneeling in prayer

and a black leather boot clad
bad *** with bad habits
but he's so cool he doesn't care

Look at him go
all on his own
with only a thousand or so, little paintings  
that are equally as photo shopped or filtered
just floating around waiting to see the show
and letting other people know they liked it
or not

What a spectacle destined
to leave us senseless and restless
what a test of the patience to be a slave to the masses
to see my juxtaposition against the rest of the best of us
and think "I should go with clever with glasses."

What a brutal twist of civilized life
to have an AI made for driving my car
so I can shimmy down and sneak another **** pic
THROUGH SPACE, to some guy who works at taco bell's wife
Laura something or something

I'm so social
What a medium,
Exchanging ideas,
and hunting body heat from out of the ether,
to have the pleasing distortion
of the speakers
drowning out all the wearisome noise
of our contortions

"You gotta learn to love yourself"
She says, and posts another photo
buried somewhere under 60 layers
of dog noses and rainbows, and angel wings

Oh **** this isn't boyfriend material let me change some things

-
You don't ever need to change girl,
there ain't anything, in this world
That I wouldn't do, to be with you.

And the Brief exchanges we had,
didn't reveal any red flags,
that I am willing to skip on *** over.

So somewhere down the line,
when the filters start to fade,
we'll just kick that can down the road,
and neither of us will change.

And the picture's that we painted of our Love
will degrade.

When I was chief creative officer for Liz Claiborne Inc., I spent a good amount of time on the road hosting fashion shows highlighting our brands. Our team made a point of retaining models of various sizes, shapes and ages, because one of the missions of the shows was to educate audiences about how they could look their best. At a Q&A; after one event in Nashville in 2010, a woman stood up, took off her jacket and said, with touching candour: “Tim, look at me. I’m a box on top, a big, square box. How can I dress this shape and not look like a fullback?” It was a question I’d heard over and over during the tour: Women who were larger than a size 12 always wanted to know, How can I look good, and why do designers ignore me?

At New York Fashion Week, which began Thursday, the majority of American women are unlikely to receive much attention, either. Designers keep their collections tightly under wraps before sending them down the runway, but if past years are any indication of what’s to come, plus-size looks will be in short supply. Sure, at New York Fashion Week in 2015, Marc Jacobs and Sophie Theallet each featured a plus-size model and Ashley Graham debuted her plus-size lingerie line. But these moves were very much the exception, not the rule.

I love the American fashion industry, but it has a lot of problems and one of them is the baffling way it has turned its back on plus-size women. It’s a puzzling conundrum. The average American woman now wears between a size 16 and a size 18, according to new research from Washington State University. There are 100 million plus-size women in America, and, for the past three years, they have increased their spending on clothes faster than their straight-size counterparts. There is money to be made here ($20.4 billion (U.S.), up 17 per cent from 2013). But many designers — dripping with disdain, lacking imagination or simply too cowardly to take a risk — still refuse to make clothes for them.

In addition to the fact that most designers max out at size 12, the selection of plus-size items on offer at many retailers is paltry compared with what’s available for a size 2 woman. According to a Bloomberg analysis, only 8.5 per cent of dresses on Nordstrom.com in May were plus-size. At J.C. Penney’s website, it was 16 per cent; Nike.com had a mere five items — total.

I’ve spoken to many designers and merchandisers about this. The overwhelming response is, “I’m not interested in her.” Why? “I don’t want her wearing my clothes.” Why? “She won’t look the way that I want her to look.” They say the plus-size woman is complicated, different and difficult, that no two size 16s are alike. Some haven’t bothered to hide their contempt. “No one wants to see curvy women” on the runway, Karl Lagerfeld, head designer of Chanel, said in 2009. Plenty of mass retailers are no more enlightened: under the tenure of chief executive Mike Jeffries, Abercrombie & Fitch sold nothing larger than a size 10, with Jeffries explaining that “we go after the attractive, all-American kid.”

This a design failure and not a customer issue. There is no reason larger women can’t look just as fabulous as all other women. The key is the harmonious balance of silhouette, proportion and fit, regardless of size or shape. Designs need to be reconceived, not just sized up; it’s a matter of adjusting proportions. The textile changes, every seam changes. Done right, our clothing can create an optical illusion that helps us look taller and slimmer. Done wrong, and we look worse than if we were naked.

Have you shopped retail for size 14-plus clothing? Based on my experience shopping with plus-size women, it’s a horribly insulting and demoralizing experience. Half the items make the body look larger, with features like ruching, box pleats and shoulder pads. Pastels and large-scale prints and crazy pattern-mixing abound, all guaranteed to make you look infantile or like a float in a parade. Adding to this travesty is a major department-store chain that makes you walk under a marquee that reads “WOMAN.” What does that even imply? That a “woman” is anyone larger than a 12 and everyone else is a girl? It’s mind-boggling.

Project Runway, the design competition show on which I’m a mentor, has not been a leader on this issue. Every season we have the “real women” challenge (a title I hate), in which the designers create looks for non-models. The designers audibly groan, though I’m not sure why; in the real world, they won’t be dressing a seven-foot-tall glamazon.

This season, something different happened: Ashley Nell Tipton won the contest with the show’s first plus-size collection. But even this achievement managed to come off as condescending. I’ve never seen such hideous clothes in my life: bare midriffs; skirts over crinoline, which give the clothes, and the wearer, more volume; see-through skirts that reveal *******; pastels, which tend to make the wearer look juvenile; and large-scale floral embellishments that shout “prom.” Her victory reeked of tokenism. One judge told me that she was “voting for the symbol” and that these were clothes for a “certain population.” I said they should be clothes all women want to wear. I wouldn’t dream of letting any woman, whether she’s a size 6 or a 16, wear them. Simply making a nod toward inclusiveness is not enough.

This problem is difficult to change. The industry, from the runway to magazines to advertising, likes subscribing to the mythology it has created of glamour and thinness. Look at Vogue’s “Shape Issue,” which is ostensibly a celebration of different body types but does no more than nod to anyone above a size 12. For decades, designers have trotted models with bodies completely unattainable for most women down the runway. First it was women so thin that they surely had eating disorders. After an outcry, the industry responded by putting young teens on the runway, girls who had yet to exit puberty. More outrage.

But change is not impossible. There are aesthetically worthy retail successes in this market. When helping women who are size 14 and up, my go-to retailer is Lane Bryant. While the items aren’t fashion with a capital F, they are stylish (but please avoid the cropped pants — always a no-no for any woman). And designer Christian Siriano scored a design and public relations victory after producing a look for Leslie Jones to wear to the “Ghostbusters” red-carpet premiere. Jones, who is not a diminutive woman, had tweeted in despair that she couldn’t find anyone to dress her; Siriano stepped in with a lovely full-length red gown.

Several retailers that have stepped up their plus-size offerings have been rewarded. In one year, ModCloth doubled its plus-size lineup. To mark the anniversary, the company paid for a survey of 1,500 American women ages 18 to 44 and released its findings: Seventy-four per cent of plus-size women described shopping in stores as “frustrating”; 65 per cent said they were “excluded.” (Interestingly, 65 per cent of women of all sizes agreed that plus-size women were ignored by the fashion industry.) But the plus-size women surveyed also indicated that they wanted to shop more. More than 80 per cent said they’d spend more on clothing if they had more choices in their size and nearly 90 per cent said they would buy more if they had trendier options. According to the company, its plus-size shoppers place 20 per cent more orders than its straight-size customers.

Online start-up Eloquii, initially conceived and then killed by The Limited, was reborn in 2014. The trendy plus-size retailer, whose top seller is an over-the-knee boot with four-inch heels and extended calf sizes, grew its sales volume by more than 165 per cent in 2015.

Despite the huge financial potential of this market, many designers don’t want to address it. It’s not in their vocabulary. Today’s designers operate within paradigms that were established decades ago, including anachronistic sizing. (Consider the fashion show: It hasn’t changed in more than a century.) But this is now the shape of women in this nation, and designers need to wrap their minds around it. I profoundly believe that women of every size can look good. But they must be given choices. Separates — tops, bottoms — rather than single items like dresses or jumpsuits always work best for the purpose of fit. Larger women look great in clothes skimming the body, rather than hugging or cascading. There’s an art to doing this. Designers, make it work.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses

Oh no, I didn'tstagram
Don't want to share my selfies
Don't want you to know what I ate last night
Or what I did on Roofies

I twitter at your followers
And no, I won't "Follow you back"
The only people I'll re-tweet, my dear
Have all the things you lack

Won't go in One Direction
So hate on me, make a fuss
Don't think they'll oust the Beatles
Just because Harry does

Oh, what's a SnapChat?
Don't think I have that
Oh wait a minute, I don't care
Cos that app's neither here nor there

Don't think I'll find an online mister
Or reply to a "How about we.."?
Yes, I'm cyber challenged
So said my little sister

Everyone's a super model
But I mistrust Facebook photos
You probably photo-shopped your flaws
Or whitened your teeth with risottos

#nofilter equals #somanyfilters
Enough with all the fake
Because in this unreal world
This is more than I can take

So, take a step back
Post a candid shot
Don't hang around for them likes
Show them what you've really got

Make it stop.

Build a ***** workshop
(Where we feed on your insecurities for profit)
Don’t like what your mirror has to offer
In need of a quick fix because your size 0 jeans won’t fit
Well destroy your body like our ecosystem
With plastic to make you look fantastic
Because looking like an overstocked toy is the new ****
Change your completion until there’s nothing left
While tosh points out how you’re worthless without *******
which brings out insecurity galore
You need to be Barbie if you want
Ken and his Malibu beach house
Everyone knows you’re only worth as much as your waist line
Don’t judge a book by its cover
But my generation doesn’t even read
Photo shopped teens as far as the eye can see
Post photos
That strips away your dignity
For a spot on a that new reality TV series
Forget about the news because the kardashians bought new shoes
Mom asks So what did you learn today at school
A cool equation that the other kids taught me
My body – eating + surgery +pills= picture perfect girl
Or new American dream
*******, small waist, always sleeping around, never complain , don’t feel ashamed that’s the only way to play the game
How many pills did you take to look that anorexic?
Who made you feel so uncomfortable in your own skin?
How many meals did you shove down the bathroom sink?  
How many surgeries did it take for you to become this fake?
The sad part is I bet you even Barbie didn't have this many plastic pieces

We went out back
After the meeting
when we knew we had nothing
and had a long way to go and were now
much happier

To the little barn
Stuffed with donations
from magical beings with money
who bought things from stores and used them
and then left them silently
in crackling plastic bags

We had listened and found
all the he's were the same
We were not alone and strange as he had said
Those he's always said that
we had nothing that he had taken and we were not ashamed

Digging deeper into the bins
hoping for treasure

Lingerie with lace
Sparkling silly bling
Shoes for work
I still have the purple lamp
you picked out for me

Your check for tuition
bounced as we shopped
and we thought it was funny

Annick (my 28 year old sister) came down to NYC, from Boston, for a day visit. It was one of those warm, cerulean days between Christmas and New Years. Annick’s in a surgical residence, in a pandemic, but still somehow, she got away.

We’re dining on a shaded, outdoor, sundeck - I arrived first, by a moment but then the elevator opened and Annick emerged, looking like a model - familiar but I don’t know - more completely adult - more than ever like my mom. It was all I could do not to weep for happiness when we hugged.

After that long hug, Annick gave my clothes a slow, censorious looking-over. When my mom and I shopped for “school clothes” last year, in Paris, I bought some stunning designer (Anna Molinari) clothes - only to find out they were completely out of place at Yale. Now they’re sentenced to a trunk under my bed and my replacement clothes are from FatFace and Patagonia. Ordinary clothes, bought for their ordinariness.

I’ve been dressing to disappear but I wanted her to see a “new me.” How I’ve survived in a rough, academic country - not just survived - but thrived. I also wanted her to think her sister was beautiful and hoped I didn’t seem too strange. She cupped my chin - just like my mom does - “You look wonderful,” she said.

Annick mentioned we’d have company for lunch but she was alone - then this tall, fair-haired, man was with us. He slipped his arm around Annick’s waist and they smiled, together. I’d never met one of Annick's boyfriends before so this was a little disconcerting - part of me wanted to pull her away and say, “MINE!”

Annick made the introductions, “Anais, this is Gerard - Gerard, Anais.”  Gerard leaned into la bise then half hugged me, patting me bearishly on the back. I decided he was too tall and too handsome and began to examine him for flaws.

He wore a dark-charcoal-gray cashmere suit with a light-gray oxford-cloth shirt. “Are you always so dapper?” I asked? “I wanted to look substantial,” he said, with a very slight French accent. He held me at arm’s length. “You’re definitely sisters,” he said, smiling.

We settled in. At first we were a little stilted with each other, uncertain how to best introduce ourselves. Annick said that Gerard is a “Child Neurologist.” “Funny,” I said, “you look older.” and he laughed. I was warming to him.

“How’s school going?” Annick asked later, moving some of my fly-away hair out of my face - a trace of the maternal in her solicitous fussing - but I liked it.
“Easy peasy,” I said, the lie warming me like an ember or black magic.

There’s no real sibling rivalry between us. Imagine you’re Beyoncé’s sister, what are the odds that you’ll eclipse Beyoncé? Yeah, it’s ZERO.

“Ha!” she laughs, “you are such a little fibber.”
“I am NOT,” I hotly say, but my defense is ruined by my laugh. “I’m doing ok - but it’s a lot,” I say, to erase the fib.

They’re ENGAGED!
I tried not to act stunned but I doubt I was very convincing. The news thumped me like a gust of wind. Suddenly, I knew. Our yesterdays were no more substantial than a story we’d read together growing up, that you can mourn and rejoice at the same time.

Otherwise it was a family lunch, although at first I was a bit nervous around Gerard. At one point Annick says, “What are you doing?” as the table gently quivered.
I smiled wincingly, “Making circles with my ankles,” I said.
Annick smiled knowingly.

Ralph Lauren - Losing My Elastic

Dear Ralph,

A few years ago,
The alone years,
When street strangers I would street stop,
Hoping that ecstasy miracles you-know-what,
I walked endlessly, shopped but never bought,
Selling but never sold,

Standing in line at DD,
Wanting that person in front of me to order
Coffee and a heart, with extra me.

Found myself at 59th and Lex,
Famous department store basement,
Found a room where clothes where kissed away
Prices cheap, styles atrocious,
But I felt home there, understood the milieu.

There is where
You and I met, polo played.

Found a pair of shorts you must have lost,
Cause your name was on them in four places.

Really ugly, army green,
Consigned to be buried,
Or bundled off to Africa.

Assured you didn't want them back,
For five bucks me and you left together
From Emporium Bloomingdales.

We have been together for six years,
Give or take, plenty of giving, some taking,
Sleeping together, you shared some good
Poetry writing and love making.

Ralph! This soft shroud you made, I love it so,
Tumbleweed, tumble dried,
Is now losing its elasticity,
The Band**^^ has recorded its last song.

Taken my beloved to every surgeon,
Doctor, Master Tailor, Plastic Elastic
Specialist on Savile Row and Jermyn Street,
Park Avenue, been up and down,
All say that there is nothing to be done,
Grief counseling maybe,
Causing soon I am going to losing you,
Dead by loss of elasticity.

But here I lie, here I weep,
Thinking of the good years.
Stricken, this will likely be,
The last poem I write inside you,
Our last clinging, cooperative embrace.

Yes, Y'all, I found that special stranger eventually,
On line, not in line,
She liked my profile^ and took me home
For safekeeping.

She don't know about us,
But when she suggests its time for us to
Separate, cause every minute I gotta pull
You back up again and again,
I turn away lest she misunderstand the tears.

Ralph, you let me down,
Why can't you have designed my
Sleeping companion to last as long as
Forever, like in all the love songs?

My darling, soon you will disappear,
To I don't know where,
I'll come home, and tight silences will tell me everything
I don't want to know.

Safe journey my boon, my joy,
Until we meet, cross existences once more,
Gives me comfort some,
Knowing that on journey long to parts unknown,
This token, this little writ will be accompanying you!

Ralph - is there nothing to do?

Silence.

Lest you think this is utter nonsense,
Look closer at your screen, try harder, try again,
Don't you see that single tear in the
Lower corner of my life.

When my body loses its elastic,
Who will,
Will you,
Write me a poem to clutch?
In my casket, scatter the ashes, of my
Loving poetry, I want my life fantastic poetic
Memories next to me, even as we both become dust...


3:47AM
July 2nd, 2013

When in the pasture
They don't offend;
We avert disaster,
When they're penned.

But that crusted crap
Is everywhere;
If not aware,
We step right in.
We'll scrape the pooh
To no avail,
The smell's
Stuck to our shoes.
We can't quell
The **** we're in.

There's one steaming
On my walk,
Leading to my door.
Leave your keys
When you leave,
That patty leads
To court.

The Internet's beset
With bullish threats;
Hard to miss
The patties here;
Our lives and much
That we hold dear,
Is shared and smeared
For all to read,
Milking us of privacy;
An abattoir,
It's piracy.
It's utterly insane.
They entice us,
Then enlist us,
Like leading
Cash cows
Down the lane;
Then tap
For one drop more.

Friends may offer
Cow pies
With an aromaticfluence;
They pressure you to choose:
Step right or left,
Then smear you with
Their cocksure *******.
What enemy
Could do less?

Shopped pixelled patties
Are reprehensible,
Making one
So susceptible:
You *****,
Then starve,
Then lose your hair
Until one day
You disappear.

We get caught up
In the flash,
Of all the stars
And fast cash,
But they have patties
Underfoot,
They slip and slide,
Get clean,
Then smirk.
We can smell'em
On those jerks.

There's a patty
At your boyfriend's place;
You're deep in it
If you're late.

There's a patty
At your girlfriend's  place,
And you're deep in it
If she's late.

Some patties
Are so well disguised
In the colours
Of lover's eyes.
Intoned in lover's lures.
But step in it,
They call you *****.

Some patties
Are good
At getting you high,
But one mis-step,
And you may die.

There's hidden patties
Lying within,
Crusted beneath
Veneered skin:
They waft with doubt,
Fear and longing;
Side-step that mass
At all costs.
Don't crack the surface.

You're better than
You think.

Never use your laser in a supermarket

it can cause ****** havoc

well I went to store

thinking of food and not much more


So I shopped and shopped

and totally forgot

that my laser was in my pocket


Well when I went to pay

to my despair

my card I did not pull out

but my laser, I say


The safety was off and it went to auto fire

I held it down blasting big holes in the ground

I found my card when I switch it off

deeply apologizing to the staff with a sigh and cough




By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

Jingle, jingle, Mr. Kringle
Please drop by my house.
Don’t miss it like you did last year
Don’t be that seasonal louse
That brought cheesy kinds of toys
From the local dollar store
We shopped there all the time
So we had seen them before.

I don’t want to sound ungrateful
But Action Tommy is not the same
As GI Joe. Between the two there’s
More difference than the name.
And Lego blocks fit together
To build some amazing things
Those copycat toys from Taiwan
Do not build much of anything.

Jingle, Jingle, Mr. Kringle
If you are real, please heed.
None of those toys and junk
Is really what we need.
It would be better if you could
Bring a job for my poor Dad.
Make it better than minimum, like
The one he most recently had.

And maybe a raise for Mom
Who works a full time job too.
Would a dollar an hour be such
An earth-shaking thing to see to?
So, just in general, Kringle dude,
If it wouldn’t make you awful mad
Could you twitch your nose and
Make this Christmas not be sad?

Her currency was heartbeats
She only shopped with time.
She paid for things with seconds
As she waited in a line.

You cannot put heartbeats in a money box.
To save for a rainy day.
You either use them or you lose them
Heartbeat’s are made that way

She would spend heartbeats on strangers
As they shared their troubles and woes
Because kind hearts are worth more than riches
And go much further than money goes.

She would spend a heap of heartbeats on moments
Visiting old and precious friends.
Who wondered how she was so happy
With so little money to spend.

But money only buys possessions
While heartbeats buy much more.
They buy  you friends and love and laughter
And a warm  smile at every door.

It a fact you can’t buy heartbeats
When you have used them they are gone
So spend your heartbeats wisely
For one day you will have none.

In Lisbon, we blended
ended the day with spectacular culinary
Shopped and hopped side to side

In Dublin, we vented
as the whisky and Guinness was **** good
Shipped the hire car to Galway

In Italy, we invented
dropped coins in fountains of love we already held
From Florence, to Milan, to Rome, to Bologna

In Paris, I rented
alone in protests and hippies at Place De La Republique
Dreamt of you as they skated

In Romania, I persisted
up on the icy Tranfagarasan highway traps
I saw a bear and it had your eyes

In Stockholm, we insisted
As the Vasa sunk on tables of *****
Pecked on the trains and shied away.

In London, we protested
It was an ordinary day and the flowers didn't bloom
The Thames was gloomy and stale

In Oslo, we transmitted
The reindeer meal and cranberry was a disaster
The gloom followed us to southern skies

In Copenhagen, you were sorted
Smiled and amused by the Tivoli gardens
The night became day and the wind withered

In Amsterdam, we did what we did
Stored the memories on the reclaimed lands
Free-spirited in love and in eternity

They will tell you that you cannot feel fat.
Fat is not something you can feel, it’s just something that you are.
Well, I have to disagree.
I feel fat all the time.
I can feel it on my arms, my thunder thighs, and my bulge of my stomach.
Oh, do I feel it on my stomach.
And maybe they will tell you that touching your fat doesn't count.
Well maybe, I Feel Absolutely Terrible.
Feel, F
Absolutely, A
Terrible, T
Well, I may be big, but I’m not stupid.
That spells fat.
So, it must be true.
I’m fat, at least that’s what I've been told.

That’s what people everywhere have been told.
We grow up looking at photo-shopped pictures of models,
because thin is in!
So we gorge ourselves on “skinny pills” that market anorexia in a bottle.
We tell ourselves that in order to be beautiful or handsome, or desirable, there has to be an inch between our thighs.
We tell boys to have broad shoulders and a washboard for a stomach.
We tell girls that they have to look like a dog toy when it’s been squeezed,
but instead of eyes popping out, its your chest and your ****.
We have created impossible standards of what beauty is,
and so we **** ourselves in an attempt to reach them.

We feel hurt by the world,
so we cut each other down with stares that could shatter glass.
Some may think that they have risen above enough to educate,
so they offer you the friendly reminder that
skinny jeans don’t make you look skinny if you’re fat,
as if we were not intelligent enough to figure that out for ourselves.
They will remind you that a moment on the lips is forever on the hips,
so we binge in the darkness,
to hide because we now feel ashamed of a basic human need.
We will cry tears that are dry,
so they will never have to know,
that being told you have a ***-belly when you’re seven,
hurts just as much as being called a fat, little girl when you’re seventeen.

We turn away from the things that used to matter to us.
We look at clothes before smiles.
We take in size, before heart.
We call ourselves ugly without any regard for our person.
We know that the outside matches the inside,
but don’t give a second thought to the kind of person we really are.
So we look in the mirror and take a guess.
That answer seems good enough.

But I am sick of good enough.
I want to shatter the glass,
let it rain down in a fine powder
of the person that we thought we saw.
I want to stop looking down at the body beneath me,
and look up at the world that surrounds me.
But, so much of the world is small, and cruel.
So, I hang my head as I walk past.

I sit next to my best friend,
her perfect size zero
is huge in the eyes of the girls who crave it.
She tells me that she feels fat,
that she thinks she is ugly.
I am struck by this;
she has more beauty than she could ever know.
But I guess I don’t pay attention to what she looks like all that much.
I tell her,
“You’re not fat. If you’re fat than I have a gravitational orbit.”
I try to laugh, but she disagrees with me.
I guess she doesn't really pay attention to what I look like either.

This is for the girls who lie awake at night,
Pulling at the blankets to keep them warm,
Drenched in sins of deprecation.
Tossing and turning on their twin size beds,
because there is not enough room to fit expectations,
let alone their own.
This is for the girls who stare at themselves in front of their mirrors,
Pinching at the extra layers of skin that hang around their tummies.
Rolls of "fat" as they call it, I prefer the term "beauty."
This is for the girls who have shoulders are backs plastered in scars.
From the bras that were one cup size to small, overly adjusted and tightened straps.
This is for the girls who fall prey to the fallacies of magazine stands,
captivated by the cold letters bleeding off the covers:
"Three hundred, sixty-five ways to style your hair!"
"How to get the perfect ****!"
"Turn off the lights to look good naked!"
"How to make him love you!"
Pull apart the flesh, look beneath your skin,
you are not defined by the number of eyes that manifest lust towards you,
you are not the hands that plead to saunter their way toward your hips,
You are not the number of inches that space out your thighs.
Or the visibility of muscle that line up on your stomach.
You do not need to look good naked,
don't turn off the lights.
Your **** looks fine
Stop falling victim to the media
To the photo shopped ads of puppets who look nothing like you
Because your real
and if you want a man to love you, he must learn to accept you
with your extra flaws, our scars, and rolls of fat.
Because that sack of bones known as a model on a Cosmopolitan cover will not keep him warm.
It is inscribed in the atoms that make you a person
you are a three dimensional beautiful masterpiece
you are not a computerized pixelated image
reshaped and resized retouched and revised
stop letting society dehumanize a woman
your a woman
all the fury to slither through you limbs until you shake with and anger and purpose, acknowledge the value of your worth for you are more that just a waste of paper and space, you are space, you are human, your alive, and beautiful

He was not your average hermit,
he was not unkempt or *****.
He camped out in the woods of Maine
for years, now, nearly thirty.

He burgled food and propane tanks
when folks were not at home.
His carbon footprint was quite small
He didn’t even have a phone.

With a high school education,
He liked living off the land
He oft” shopped” at a summer camp
but was caught on security cam.

Finally they captured him
and put him in a cell.
Now with murderers and rapists
The hermit’s forced to dwell.

His distinctive “Woodsy” odor
Keeps them at bay, I swear.
This fugitive from Walden Pond is
smarter than the average bear.

I once grew my hair down to my waist.
But then I cut it. Cuz long hair is overrated.

I once dyed my brown hair blonde.
But then I hid in my room. Cuz blonde hair is overrated.

I once wore blue eye contacts.
But then I instantly took them off. Cuz blue eyes are overrated.

I once caked my eyelids with eyeshadow.
But then I wiped it off. Cuz makeup is overrated.

I once became a millionaire.
But then I gave away all my money to charities. Cuz money is overrated.

I once got a fake tan.
But then I wore long sleeves and jeans. Cuz tan skin is overrated.

I once shopped at Express.
But then I gave all my clothes to Goodwill and shopped there instead. Cuz expensive clothes are overrated.

Don't change who you are just to please others.

Cuz perfection is overrated.

The Girl who spent heartbeats

Her currency was heartbeats
She only shopped with time.
She paid for things with seconds
As she waited in a line.

You cannot put heartbeats in a money box.
To save for a rainy day.
You either use them or you lose them
Heartbeat’s are made that way

She would spend heartbeats on strangers
As they shared their troubles and woes
Because kind hearts are worth more than riches
And go much further than money goes.

She would spend a heap of heartbeats on moments
Visiting old and precious friends.
Who wondered how she was so happy
With so little money to spend.

But money only buys possessions
While heartbeats buy much more.
They buy  you friends and love and laughter
And a warm  smile at every door.

It a fact you can’t buy heartbeats
When you have used them they are gone
So spend your heartbeats wisely
For one day you will have none

A man wore silk designer suits
Rolex on his wrist
His shoes were made in Italy
Had trillions in his fist

He had the perfect trophy wife
Kids in private schools
Drove Bentleys and Mercedes
He was no one's fool

He had mansions worldwide
Shopped Paris on the Rue
His address was a penthouse
On 5th Avenue

-

There was a man without a dime
Who lived upon a grate
Where warm air from the subway
Could share in his "estate"

He wore the rags which he had found
In shelters on the way
He sat and watched the rich man
Who walked by that day

His groaning and his mumbling
Annoyed the wealthy man
Who took care to walk around him
As he went about his plans

-

The rich man died a hero
His widow & kids drew hence
His many friends came round about
They spared no expense

The poor begger had no one
Had no money saved
He was thrown on a dungheap
They call a "pauper's grave"

-

The rich man had been lavish
He'd fared well every day
But he was a corporate mobster
So he had hell to pay

The poor man was redeemed of God
That is why he lost his job
He wouldn't serve up to the mob
And so his end was like a sob

He thanked God with his last breath
With grace endured ignoble death

But it had no strength to sting
The angels bore him on their wings

Eternity in everything

So which was the human being
Who had greatest gain?
This is an age old story
But the fact remains

The rich man saw the poor one
Again after his death
In heaven... joyous... SINGING!

While He could not draw breath!


SoulSurvivor
(C) 8/17/2016

Everyone can afford dreams
But I was the biggest shopper
Shoving condos and benzes into my cart
No cashier at the exit to demand payment

I picked lavish expensive charms
Had no worries about pennies
Everything was costless
Blessings from the gods

I was younger then I grew a little older
I kept shopping for expensive dreams
With time I encountered little snags
I couldnt get out of the mall with my immense goods

So I bargained with my conscience
Drop this and pick that
What was lighter I thought was better
So I chose those that were easier

Years went by and I learnt lessons little by little
A sister had shopped for the Whitehouse
And arrived home with a highschool
The question is can you carry what you pick?

A friend had shopped for the most
Yet arrived home with the least
So I selected the lightest
But when I packed, my car wouldn't budge

I further reduced my pricey costless goods
Albeit grudgingly,promising myself
I would come back for them
But **** there are no second rounds

As I grew older and older
I found myself driving home
With only a few of those costless goods
They were not even the biggest and priciest

They were what I could carry
Every time I stop by that dream shop
To do some window shopping
And say I wish

Fourteen years ago, I was entering a new Millennium.
I was a broken girl.
A mere nineteen years of age.
I was celebrating with friends.
There was drink and music and a fancy dress.
I don't recall much, only two photos of that night, sparked from a disposable Kodak camera.
I scribbled out his face, using a black pen.
I did the same with the Polaroid picture I had of us all.
The "crew," those who claimed to be loyal and best friends.
We were all in the image, and I took his face and made it go away.
At the same time I scribbled out her head.
She was the best friend that turned full circle on me.
She made life hell.
She made me never want to be anywhere near any of them.
Both their faces were removed.
Like in the show Revenge, where as she revenges those who did her father wrong, she writes them out.
And I did the same.
Little by little, only my face remained.
No one believed how he was with me.
I never even told them the full story.
Just minor details, and I used to be laughed at, the crazy one telling lies running from the truth.
But what went on behind those doors, will only even be known by us.
And of course the therapist who recalled the details with me, to reform and rejuvenate my tempered mind.
Secrets I shared with her.
In the room, which had a white noise switch, so only us and the walls knew the verses sang.
I'll spare the reader the details of the nights ***** and beaten, another poor girls cries through the night.
And as dusk turned til dawn, on this treacherous love affair, I ran.
And the running took me home, and although safe, he was a presence there for almost a year.
Outside he was waiting, the door bell ringing, the phone blowing up.
I would cry and rip the cards and love letters he so wrote.
I would be on bended knees pleading for release.
I wanted to take it all back, all the screaming, the shouting, being muted and used and abused.
It was so prevalent in my head that I eventually lost all conscience.
So detached during such attacks, no memory really remained.
It was scattered and fallen, and my body mirrored the deterioration of my mind.
Thinner and thinner, I escaped all womanhood.
I shrank, to the point I shopped in the children's section.
It pleased me because I felt safe, it pleased me because he could no longer hurt me.
But that night he did. And I purged in the bathroom for the first time, after he forced me to my knees.
He even had the audacity to come into the bedroom after, and express his concern for the waif I now was.
I told him I was fine.
Decades later, that "fine" response remains.
I dealt with his force and pain, the pain he pushed and locked on me.
And yet every new year, I am reminded of what went so terribly wrong.
Three months down the line, celebrations into 2000, he is thrown out by security.
I actually can't even remember what he did.
I guess he did enough for others to see that he was wronging me.
Yet I always questioned, how could something that felt so right, be so wrong.
I asked my mum earlier; "do you think he is married with kids?"
"Yes!"
"Do you think he hurts her?"
"Yes!"
All my answers cleared.
Here I am, 2013, alone.
Single since the start, and single at the end.
I hurt.
I am tired.
In many ways, I am thinking that a little pain, for a life time of sleep, could be worth it.
Goodnight.

© Sia Jane

he was forty but lied about his age,
told everyone he looked young for his age,
and still shopped at hot topic

he is in late forties now, still thinks he looks young,
and still shops at hot topic

he buys the same stuff that people were buying
in the 80's before hot topic existed

he describes himself as having such a brilliant mind that he is easily bored with people. he is an intj, so this means that he knows everything. he is very intelligent according to the re-occuring craigslist misc. romance ads he has been posting for the last decade.

when he gets inspired, he updates his fetlife profile
(or his ok cupid profile)

i met him when i was too alone, but not numb enough yet
he kept on telling me that depressed people were really just narcissists who couldn't stop thinking about themselves

i couldn't tolerate him, but had nothing else to do, so i had to be drunk and ****** at all times in his presence and i don't drink very often
prior to that i was only a weekend stoner,
but that changed real quick

he made himself too comfortable
and bought me a bob dobbs book for my birthday
because he thought and still thinks bob dobbs is hilarious

he kept on using my bathroom for long periods of time
and bringing the bob dobbs book in with him every time

i told him he could keep the bob dobbs book
but he said, "no, it's more the kind of book that i want to read when i come over and use your bathroom"
so i swallowed the throw up in my mouth, asked him to leave, threw the book away, and never had anything to do with him after that.

shortly thereafter, he started diagnosing me and every other woman who is not attracted to him as having borderline personality disorder via craigslist missed connections and/or his fetlife profile (which i still read for laughs).

then he broke into my apartment through the back door the night before he got married to a woman who needed a green card. i'm not sure why he did that, i'll never know. he broke the door, so it wouldn't shut properly anymore and i smashed my fingers in it once while trying to shut it. my fingernails fell off.

and this is why i have been celibate for the last 7 and half years.

Staring into the distance called to a halt lowly by a ceiling
With beams of clouds I have my essay planned, do the
Right thing when the morning comes, start early and lap lap
Lap it up… I missed a day will I be able to write it okay?
It’s only a draft, final assessment in the genesis of a new
Year as apocalyptic as it gets draped in gray by God’s
Gesturing arm lamp shading… why should I do it? To
Quickly bang it out before the deadline just to get it out
The way… daydream precocious bipedal insect monsters
Before the real thing moons God and his gang of whiskey
Parlour batchelors leaning on leather elbow pads admiring
The craftsmanship of the upholstery… the real thing is more
Absorbing always cutting off as I’m getting somewhere, start
In daytime and realize there’s nowhere to get, that’s the thing
Yelling stop think again, or fill every nook cranny and interstice
With feet free to walk in peace… they are antonyms I could
Never fit in, gaps that long ago gave up

Deserted wide areas of something, opportunity, you must
Agree are not expenses anymore by any imaginative feat
Dancing to deep scar/jungle depravity light reflections…
I can’t remember and don’t want to check over in case I
Get cut off -

Forget that’s true… (Something I literally cannot do)… I was
Enthralling, reading, writing, the {authorised} daydreaming -
Breakfast for dinner - dinner for breakfast - closer to the sun -
My legs have gone weak - I want to numb the static pain Spit-
Ting strangling cosmic debris from the satellite to the T.V…
It’s not that I’m not moving, I am careering just fine to turquoise
Blue sky, the bottom of a valley draped in a green screen sheet
Searching on my homepage for something more than my
Forest floor in the circular sky print of psychedelic white smud-

Ging print in the canopy tickling my mind’s eye giggles awake…
It’s that I’m not being methodical revolutions around a state I aim
To occupy, to occupy less derivatively… It’s not that… what is
This space? Living harmoniously, smiling on the front page of the
Daily Reality, not a youtube metamemetextraction everyone has
Different power to construe as well as they consume.. which, well…

Headlines to all cheer in support immaculately agreeing rather than
Memetic smearing in a forest snearing, no singing, no branches,
Hollow UVescence flood… hot sun burns ignorant eyes that power-
Point-slide nothing retinal light soggy cardboard calippo awkwardly
Bending, quivering like an Einsteinian physician’s space-time ******
You can’t see, squinting hard open town open mouth open source
Open eyes it is morning time morning square morning everyone everywhere
Square skulky shoulders and a brittle skunk twig head, not always there after
Shipping in a rectangular organisation of beds for fallen fruit everyone
Walks by, what is healthy? in society, what is homely what is dull housing
Ex-ice lolly sweet sticky strawb-red syrup marooning, baking to brown
Down backstage curtains poised in windy drapery drapery drapery…
Window hardware still there not to see any of the people, have you
Gone forever? The sun drapes savannah grapes out of place fire-soaked
Memories, temporary tent, arms and legs and back and Earth and one-
They’ve been the same thing begging to be vacuumed to a better outlook
Well away from towns bookmarking forests of knowledge seeming never
Ending turn to plywood, you can’t be in a vacuum better anywhere,
And hope strives away shooting through the replacement plastic funnel
Into a dropping everything…

Cornered - shopped - bussed - stopped - ticketed - one-wayed - one-way-
Systemed - ticketed - inspected - mauled - in the shops - for food -
For clothes - carred and parked in a roundabout way - merged in a
Motorway, by a dense grey matter, a concrete intelligence, one certified
Body of the indefiniteness of everyone's words, their words… our words…
That which is said… what people say… what we think… make a pretend wolf
Beg for a ready salted crisp at the the bar in the pub I leave the sound of
Those who hear everything better, I couldn’t hear a thing over the hoover…

A wild din falls on developing streets, silent and wide, stocky and broken,
Choking on ******* butterflies in my throat and stomach screaming… hold
Tears back while the sad song plays, that burst out of the interlude’s segue
To the beat picking up exactly what you wanted it to… wake up the pride!
I am trapped in a cage! Wake up the tribe! Is it on your webpage?

Where has it gone?

"Abscission of Eschewal”

If I am still, I can hear the voices.

Chimes of advices, softly spoken, coronate in neon in my peripherals. Messages, abscissas from the x-axis of words and sounds, just parallel, float their fog of transmission to me.

“Touch that wall,” a voice’s suggestion nudges as I crookedly gain my balance by clutching the flat surface of this white wall, one fourth of the surfaces confining the contents of a tight enclosure. Just under the ventilation shaft, the wall is vibrating. The voices are louder near vibrations.

The enclosure, with every surface bleach white, is a bathroom, a corner taken at the edge of the convenience store off the four lane highway by the high school.

Its sink compacts spotless metal into its design, and the crafting lines visibly run parallel upon in its surface, reflecting generously to the bags under my eyes. The soap dispenser’s cubic structure cut into a visitor's vision like the blade of a pencil sharpener, showing every pixel and every angle of my face inside it.

Feint grooves dig into the wall in the shape of a triangle and a pair of scissors. Opposite that wall, a door with no handle stands; in the place of the handle rests only a circular lock. Behind the door, I hear a sigh, a winded slurp, the kind joggers give after high speed exertion on a morning run.

I hear the air rush, hitting the nostrils.

I hear a whimper.

I push the door open, slowly, and the hinge pops in intervals as it wedges open.

In front of me, a stool sets with a touch screen phone running on top of it, and a limp woman curls in a ball upon the floor, facing the bathroom. Her eyelids are missing.

A video plays of her on the touch screen phone on the stool. In a Skype window, she, a brunette girl with duct tape wrapped around her mouth, flickers in the thick black mire of what appeared to be another lavatory with a single fluorescent light with faulty wiring blinking a white glow upon her matted, unwashed hair. A black frame and darkness outlines her figure, filling the rest of the room. Her eyelids are missing in the video, just as her eyelids are missing in person, but she grasps to consciousness in the video, and she turns her eyes frequently with nervous twitches, wheezing and whimpering in the Skype window on the phone.

“Incoming call, 785-135-1581,” a white screen with green buttons interrupts.

I touch “Accept” and pick up the phone.

When my ear touches to the phone, I hear heavy breathing.

“No breeding, Jonas.” a male voice whispers.

“How do you know me?” I ask.

“Mating. They want to keep you from it,” the man continues.

“I won’t let that happen,” I assert.

“This was in protest, the first. Eyes open, so they can see,” the man says on the phone.

The male voice I heard on the phone, The Heavy Breather, inhales and exhales.

“Are there anymore?” I ask.

“I didn’t need anymore. Find out about her. See for yourself.”

I check her wallet.

I see credit cards, visas, and a 5x7 with her standing behind a podium in a lodge in a small town with a banner behind it, and a picture of a man racing on foot, crossing a finishing line with an arm outstretched in front of another racer to prevent him from finishing.
On the banner, a slogan reads, “Keep unborn and unflowered: cleanse the youth.”
Seated before her in the lodge are several lawyers, doctors, and town leaders conversing, smiling, and greeting.

“Look what they’ve done, colluding together, excluding us.  Leaving us alone. Partying while we suffer. Those in The Colluded of the Equinox kiss their wives and girlfriends and children in public they hoard and tell it all to us, flaunting their miscreant deeds. They hide in shadows and do every wrong thing, but they only rarely do wrong in public, and they are never together at the same time. They keep hidden company. They rejoice in their evils, oppression. We live not more than a few miles from them, wherever we live at anytime. We live with them. One sin from an unlucky man is worse than a thousand sins from a lucky man. Is that it? Is an unlucky Christian worse than a lucky atheist? They spew their mantra: 'It’s so much worse than you think.' They tell you you’re not what you think, that everything you know is wrong. 'Submit,' they say. You know what I did? I did what I wanted. This woman on the ground before you is what I wanted.”

“All this to stop from reproduction? This society…” I ask.

“I hate it, also. Be it willing or unwilling conspiracy, it is still conspiracy, high crimes, ” The Heavy Breather responds.

“Crimes before whom?” I question.

“I don’t know,” The Heavy Breather admits.

“I know some. First, they stare. Peeping in your windows, following. Then, records, whole security camera videos, receipts in stores, gone…written in ink that disappears. Records of existence...gone.Wherever you were, you were never there. That’s what they want for you, to delete every backed up conversation, memory, and recollection, so they can instill new things. I shopped in stores, and the devices were amnesiacs,” he recounts.

The woman on the floor moans and stirs, but she settles again feebly.

"They can't get rid of all that at once," I interject.

“No, but they keep scraping the little details of life away, proof of life, covering them up. They have cleaners, cleaning up our little spills of progress and success. Witnesses, like the devices they own, are amnesiacs." The Heavy Breather asserts.

"Even if the electronics are wiped clean, they must have seen us at stores or parking lots, somewhere. They can think for themselves and put it together, right?" I ask.

“Those that remember us have no incentive to continue those memories. The Colluded of the Equinox brainwash. Married people are telling the ***** not to get married. They force celibate priests, figures in white hoods.
The Colluded of the Equinox force people like quivering lures, closing doors until the only ones left are of seclusion and chastity. They are in all religions, hierarchies, in every ruling body, replacing reproduction with work, with ‘purpose,’“ he continues.

The body on the floor twitches as I hear the Heavy Breather grunt on the phone.

“These are their protocols. These are the Colluded’s motives. The Colluded condemns displays of affection, physical acts of love, reproduction. The Colluded controls the population. The Colluded tells the women to focus on each other and obey advertisements’ models of how they should behave and look…conformed and emotionless. The Colluded are survivalists, locking the reproductive organs of selected citizens to save money and keep control. The Colluded use the magnetism of credit cards to lock your urethra…the tingle you feel when you sit down on your credit cards in your wallet…it lowers your ***** count,” he growls.

“The answer came to me. 'Write your message on her insides,' said the sentence that was scrawled within my closed eyes in neon. It should read: ‘She threw us a stone instead of bread, the way corrupt people do.' You can go, now. I have work to do,” he suggests.

I heard a motor crank on the phone.

“Should I expect the authorities here?” he asks as the sound rumbles in the background.

“Carry on. I didn’t see anything,” I reply.

I grab the cell phone from the stool, press the 'End' button, put it in my pocket, and walk out of the bathroom, pushing the woman on the floor with my foot on my way out far enough from the door to close and seal it in front of her, nodding to the convenience store clerk as I push the glass door open and walk out into the street, cranking up my car and leaving to the open road.

What I want for christmas dont fit under that
tree.
Cause it dont involve to much shopping.
Just very little clothes a warm bed and you and me.

You can warp yourself in a bow.
Well share some special holiday cheer.
Over the bed is the perfect place to hang the misletoe.

What I want my dear ya dont have to buy.
Have Ibeen good all year.
Well honey I did try.

Why miss claus I never knew you shopped at
fredricks of holywood.
Spike that eggnog turn down the lights.
we'll try to keep it a silent night
but I dont think we could.

Baby I want the same pressent every year
and for that matter why not every day?
Im just in the holiday spirt what can I say.

Yes from santa I expect a lump of coal.
Makes me wonder why santas so jolly.
Hey I wonder do they gotta ******* at the north pole?

What I want for christmas is a bottle of wild turkey
and you in my bed.
Yes it's more like the ******* mansion.
Than sugar blums dancing in my head.

So my wish for this christmas to yours and you.
keep these holidays happy instead of crazy pulling
out your hair listening to Elvis singin bout a christmas
so blue.

The Girl who spent heartbeats
By
Jude  Kyrie.

Her currency was heartbeats
She only shopped with time.
She paid for things with seconds
As she waited in a line.

You cannot put heartbeats in a bank.
To save for a rainy day.
You either use them or you lose them.
I guess heartbeat’s are made that way.

She would spend her heartbeats on strangers
As they shared all their troubles and woes.
Because kind hearts are worth more than gold.
And go much further than money goes.

She spent a heap of heartbeats on moments
Visiting old and precious friends.
Who wondered how she was always happy.
With so little money to spend.

But money only buys possessions
While heartbeats buy much more.
They buy  you friends and love and laughter.
And a warm  smile at every door.

It a fact you can’t buy heartbeats
When you have used them they are gone
So spend your heartbeats wisely
For one day you will have none.