Bluetry Full Circle

I’ve got the blues real bad flowing from my heart down to my hands
My mind feels my heart sing misty blue for you
Heartstrings pull the red river roves of my mind stills
Turns chill as the weather the trill of the river’s wake I am here waiting for you to come on home, just come on home

Attached like twins - umbilical cord traveling in space right alongside death, death and life are 2 ends of the same string. Fate, energy, beyond a memory, the stars, the moon, some stars make it some don’t, some have to fake it and still can’t make it, some of us have it and never make it from the bottom to the top it’s all in my head I assure you my Bluetry won’t cure you for sure if you’re poor demure obscure, secure or insecure and you got the blues come on and wail with me, baby, you could slow your demise.

All the voices in my head tread lightly the pain is great I got the blues on download in my psyche, I’ma put it on pause take a breath let the light in through the darkened drapes covering my universe, my daddy said I was tone deaf, throw that in reverse.
Capitalize on this crazy bluetry to sing nina simone off key for you
Like a flower waiting to bloom; Like a light bulb in a dark room
I’m here waiting for you to come on home, and turn me on
Living the blues in the intimate language raising the decibel level for interpole, Internet language – you misheard - dig out the earwax.

A constant ache, I ain’t as pretty as I used to be. If only I hadn’t put on all that we8. You say don’t worry, it’s all transitory anyway, I’m waiting for someone - show me the way, on the other end, I’m not myopic – I can’t see that far, I’m water, a Pisces, I shape shift into form then when I understand them I become more a part of who I am I am I am

You remind me of my x-girlfriend he continues on a roll of faith– she’s in love with her own voice too. I guess we have interesting voices I said to defend us don’t know if he heard he was busy feeling his own world. I remind him of a past love. He reported recorded ex gf thinks he’s crazy because he follows me on the internet all the way from India. Imaginary Legends, I can’t help it. It’s outta focus. I can’t imagine -Time gone, nothing matters anymore. Sex, whatever you need, free from fee on the Internet, no lies, all tried and true.

Who’s crazy here? You say I’m the prisoner. I say it’s you. History sees the oppressor oppressed by oppressee. Let me break it down. You’re powerful. I got the balls to defy you – you’re no different than me. We got the same wires trapped beneath the dresser. I’m mother earth confessor, my ribs made this nation, I got the sensation to feel you I do. My ribs crush concrete – I perspire with desire light money rains right outside the window my rainbow manifests. Get outta my way I’ma hit the sky today, it’s my time to get me some, you hear me son.

I’m Violet from the heights – that wild mad swirl of a girl inside my heart design, grabbed this for a new poetry line. I never refuse a gift of words I can use. Hey isn’t that a line from a poem? If not I’ll make it one. Violet coming at ya’ - from the Heights, born and raised here -so get down with me tonight, cause we’re all good.

Scrambling to keep up with the joneses

I never fit in with them anyway
A misfit, a bad fit perfect sit gimmee some tit, I never had any I just want someone to love is all I need
some nurturing spell my lungs a little tongue hung by a thread keep treading shredding papers there’s no end to trend starters
Call me one anyone someone no relief in sight
You’re right it’s so trite, frightened stay on the side of the good fight, I’m tight
You tried that elevator before - broken down on the ground floor
They keep telling me you’re a loser, I know you’re a poser and a lover not a chooser
I keep writing poetry
My life loves the word, worships the word is my shepherd I shall step lightly trip the light
The word leads me to lush pastures, maintains my poverty, my soul aglow
I want to be cured of the word
Word assuages my misery, my destiny lost and re-found
Refined this new york city landscape triggers my sensitivity
A wilderness of avarice device – my honesty misfired desensitized
I am woman warrior I warned you off the stuff again and again
Each card turns, Mount Everest - show and tell
Let me go home
Take me back to earth solid gold sold lust to trust dust me off cure me of this malady – it’s a fallacy – living in a helix galaxy
I didn’t want to do it … I didn’t want to do it
Thunder strokes the sky lightening cracks open mimicking my life
Reflected in images of why you do me this way
Pray stay a while ‘honey chile’ time’s a wasten' no more haten'
Hat’s off to Danny Kaye not too many know he worked for UNICEF
for three years under a one point five million dollar contract
Fifty years ago – what would that be today?
I’ll get out the calculator
Wow today in 2009, that's one billion ninety one million
Siften' cash through sand papered hands
hard cold cash stayen' in fashion
my heart’s with Danny Kaye
Bought a house sold it a second before foreclosure
Got some tequila to wash down the seizure
Ommmm shanti talliwacker zoom zoom to the moon
I want some poon-tang some boom boom in the poom poom
poetry in the poor house
I’m dancing with Danny Kaye
Moving on up
Lay lady lay lay upon this big brass bed

Putting Gcast upfront again

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fooling around

The Family Illness

Kendra was depressed about her life. Not that it had been great before; it had still been a struggle. But now, the son-of-a-bitch was getting off scot-free as far as she was concerned. And after all the shit he’d pulled.
She looked over to where her son was on the bed and patted his hair falling in moist ringlets over his creamy caramel color face. He turned in his sleep reaching for her. Overcome with melancholy feelings, she lay down beside Kaora, kicking off her slippers. Kaora snuggled closer to her bosom, his face buried in her scent mixed with lavender. How he loved her scent. Still mostly asleep, he lifted her shirt. Kendra moved closer to oblige. This was her one pleasure. The sucking began. The soft wet feel of his mouth pulling and elongating her nipple. There was hardly any letdown but a sensation of bliss passed over her and she began to relax. Her uterus contracted lightly and her son’s hands caressed her pechos.
My poor baby she mused looking down and his moist face, his mouth working vigorously. He tugged slightly, moving his head further away pulling at her nipple, while his hand touched her other breast. He moved his jaw languorously. That bastard, she said again for the upteenth time, abandoning us for that little chippy with big boobs, her fake ass boobs.
She settled back into the pillows, the sensation moving from her breasts to her uterus. She felt her uterus contracting with the gentle tweaking of her nipple occurring simultaneously and in rhythm with the movement of his jaw. His eyes were closed and she felt very protective and loving. No one would take this from her. It was the only pleasure she had that no one could interfere with. God help them if they tried. She’d attack with her entire being.
Kendra’s anger dissipated and her thoughts began to slow down. How dare that bastard Lyle question her motives and tell her anything when he had abandoned them. How dare he say anything about her choices, as if he had any right to say anything about anything – that sick son of a bitch, she’d spit on his grave if she had a chance.
Kendra’s thoughts stopped racing and she reviewed the recent calendar of events while her son continued nursing. Kaora’s eyes remained closed and he brought his head backwards without opening his eyes, her nipple stretching, the sensation a delightful security.
Yes, she stuck by her choices, and she’d written Lyle an email telling him so, like the ass-hole needed it explained. You’d have thought he would’ve learned something during the thirteen years they’d shared. He’d always been difficult though. He’d pretend to know and then play stupid. Kendra had written succinctly, savoring her knowledge of every word on how she’d educate him, his lawyer and everyone else too.

Parenting practices include not only prolonged nursing, but also the family bed, nudity, non-vaccination, alternative health care treatment, and even home schooling, which I am already doing enough of all this (except the home schooling) while you can’t do anything right! You are the sick one and I want to see your psychiatric records now.

Kendra then impulsively threw in the last sentence.

Sexual issues can definitely complicate a situation and send off alarms in a caseworker's mind.

Later she regretted giving him this sentence but she followed up by copying and sending him an entire series of articles in support of her case on prolonged nursing, natural healing and everything else she stood for. It was enough articles to spin anyone’s head so let him try and get in her way. Just let him try…
Kaora’s sucking subsided and she put on her slippers and returned to her computer. She was so angry at his attempts to divide and intrude on their lives this way. She was still angry at the court fiasco too. From two thousand a month to nine hundred, she’d lost a lot. And so what that he’s only a salaried man. It wasn’t her fault he left with that stupid bitch cunt who he had told her he had no interest in. That bitch with her implants that he’d laughed about.
She remembered when she had jealously smacked him in the back of the head, accusingly said, “Husband, you’re paying too much attention to Sandra.”
He’d laughed and pulled her into the hallway kissing her, “you’re jealous!” Lyle said surprised. Lyle slipped his hand under her sweater and Kendra angrily pushed him away.
“That’s not yours,” she said, “they’re his.”
“He’s five and a half, for Christ’s sake! When are we ever going to have some sex?”
“We do have sex,” Kendra remembered saying, “You like to eat my pussy, don’t you?”
“Of course I love your pussy,” he said, “I just would like to have sex with my wife without my five and a half year old child waking up and you nursing him back to sleep. It’s hard to maintain excitement in that situation. It makes me uptight. I’m not comfortable with sex in the bed and my five and a half year old son waking up while we we’re in the middle of it.
The Native Americans do it and a lot of cultures do it,” she defended.
“I am not a lot of cultures,” Lyle said, “I’d like the option of going in the other room and we can’t do that because your mother lives with us.”
“You’re too uptight. He’s our son. It’s natural.”
“I’m sorry, it bothers me to have sex with him here and inhibits me. I think that’s natural too. I don’t feel free with him waking up like that.”
“Get used to it Lyle, it’s the family bed. I made my choice.”
“Don’t I have any choices?” he asked.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Kendra told him. “Imagine we’re Native Americans sleeping together in the teepee. You always like to say you’ve got Indian blood.”
Now, two and half years later, that big titty gal he’d left her for had suddenly reappeared out of nowhere asking for Lyle’s phone number. This after the dumb skinny-ass addict bitch had reported him to administration after the piece of shit and he'd had a bad break up and Lyle hadn’t returned to her. Told admin that he’d harassed her. Why would I give you his number or be your friend, when you tried to take my bread and butter’s job? What the fuck kind of crazy women does Lyle attract anyway, always a bunch of stupid ass bitches. Boy was he lucky with me Kendra mused.
Kendra returned to her computer desktop, Lyle’s email insult still open,

Kendra I think it is time that you stop sleeping with Kaora, stop showering with him and stop letting him nurse your breasts. He will be eight years old in April and such behavior is not good for his development. Let him sleep in his own room in his own bed by himself and stop nursing him. Let him shower and clean himself because he is not a baby any more.

That fucking sick bastard with his stupid bitches and hoes, adding insult to injury. Kendra had written back,

It is unclear exactly what your mother did to you that caused you to be emotionally disturbed. I have serious concerns about your abusing children in your past. Your admissions caused me to break up with you and later I let you convince me it was silly to break up with you about something that had happened so long ago when you were a child. Unlike you, I have NEVER abused a child, sexually or physically. You show me your psychiatric records or I will visit my lawyer and tell him about your history. Let this insult fest go, or you will end in dire straits. And then who will take care of Kaora. Let this insult fest go –thank god – you are my soon to be ex-husband. Let it go. You are one seriously -sick in the head man! You are the devil incarnate with a dirty mind!

Kendra had followed this up by sending him several articles supporting the family bed extended breastfeeding and nudity. She knew how to prove her point and it would stand in any court of law. She added her reminder again to her email, let this hate fest go.
How dare him, immoral piece of shit that he was, question her motives. Lyle never appreciated how she had care taken all of them, had always done all the paperwork plus supported him emotionally. She was the one who had care taken all of them. Kendra had always told him what to say and do, since she always knew the right thing to say and do. And this was her thanks, that he'd left her for a stupid skinny ass bitch with big fake-assed tits, and she, Kendra, the mother of his only son, got only a measly nine hundred dollars a month from his thirty six hundred dollar paycheck. She should get it all! How dare him criticize anything she chose to do; she’d make him pay in the end. She’d make him pay out the kazoo, with his fucking ever-present erection and his porno. Kendra had it with him anyway. She read his email asking if he could stop by Kaora’s birthday party she was holding in the park. “Sure,” she wrote, “sign over your two thousand dollar IRA to me and you can.”
Sick bastard! Later compulsively she returned to the computer again seeking any response from him. There was none. She wrote more anyway, unable to control herself. I want your psychiatric records. You are seriously sick in your mind. At least she had Kaora and she and Kaora were not alone; they had each other. Bastard Lyle would not destroy or invade the closeness between her and her son, try though he would
Then she went to youtube and found the video she was looking for, Money, that’s what I want, the English version from way back by a woman and she sent that along too with another note, “Honey, is this what’s bothering you?” She laughed aloud feeling vindicated and pressed the send button. Then she decided to resend it to his current lover too. Kendra laughed again. She walked away but was drawn back a third time to write one more note,

It seems to me that you are begging the universe for a phenomenal, industrial strength kick in the behind. You just don't learn. How about you stop right here, and I'll do the same! Learn from me, because it will go very well for you if you do.

Kendra added her name in cursive font and pressed send. She wondered if he’d ever learn that she was the smart one, she was the one in control and she always would be!


This story is taken from a variety of internet posts and other sources regarding various types abuse and combining other elements. Infantilizing children has many bad effects including teaching them that they don't need to learn to deal with frustration. It also encourages over dependency and stunts emotional growth. An eight year old child shouldn't be sucking a bottle or wearing a diaper either. An 8 year old should be learning how to act appropriately in society, and should be getting ready for adulthood...which does NOT include sucking on your mother's breast whenever you need comfort.
Parents may want to assuage a child's fears about a parent who has left the marital home, and although offering the breast is a temporary feel good solution, talking would work better. For example, I know you're sad or worried that Daddy isn't here now, but you see him weekends and I'm here with you. I'm not going anywhere.
There is a case going on right now where a judge ordered a woman to stop breast feeding her 8 year old boy, the same age as this boy. Eight years old is the beginning of puberty, when stronger sexual feelings emerge so you can see how many more problems this open behavior will create ...
Where do you draw the line if you follow the protocol that you stop when the child wants to stop? Then when the child goes away to college and returns on holiday, do you offer the breast for old times sake or give it to them if they want it? If you do you may be faced with the situation below.


For a little
levity check out what this can lead to ...

or this

A Flash of Sass

Static in my heart sings a ring so strong
like an episode of sesame street gone wrong,
the world gone awry in a single cry awoke
evoked clouds linger in the pre reminiscent pregnant air
five seconds ago on web, I watched
Yellow red purple smoke rings cascade up from Cape Canaveral
Choked on enzymes fumes
in absence of love invades hate on the abyss a trend in fate,
an alias to convert a feather stroke to an abuse with lavender candle invoked
Skyrocket in sight with a socket in my cap.
Didn’t say it wasn’t love
The rhythm of the music moves my hands
Heros dead in a flash of smoke one last glare
Great curls of white smoke rise eyes tear
Life throws so many darts no way to know
Step smack middle in the midst watch them go
Lost glares silence stares me in the eye,
life isn’t fair you cry,
I never told you it was
an old theme renewed reneged turn your back,
go away little girl though that cunt tastes so sweet to eat
keep it away from me,
cause I’m dangerous.
I lie, cheat and go to war to get to eat what I want.
I’m so aware, King of the State of affairs between me and Britain.
Jews are lucky, we have a soul with an afterlife, not a hell.
Eat your sins for the glory shall be mine.
Got the fine for double parking, ate that too, mighty tasty lugubrious morsel of time,
paid only one dime, was worth every cent, a one of kind find
white, pure, shiny granules of hope runs
Gotta meet fate at the corner of Doomston and Outta control genetic traits boulevard
The station gate at eight don’t be late, I set my heart on this chart.
I’m the bait. Worth the wait, good rate, not hatin’ I’m chillin.
A breath of fresh mint, double-mint peppermint gum
Repressed a breeze in Iceland emigrated to USA,
reject from Liverpool, traded in Halvah for a day,
lost in the fleshiness of the moment I give my life away

Smoke that dream before I cream you

A rough month ensues, working on several projects simultaneously, The Smoking Blog Book, plus The Cartier Street Review plus all the other stuff I do, publicist and the helping people too.

I’ve got all my own mishigas too to sort through. A memories life sake, a back ache, earache filibuster, Monroe birthday zone, a black hole, don’t know where to go. A vagabond review, a Scarsdale Hebrew cemetery, morsel of dainty tastiness nastiness a black hole of madness no home to go to.

Stuck inside my head, a poet’s world, inspired to drive down dirty get high on some thai stick, trying to get skinny on the sly, sounds tinny, the words stuck in my eardrums, tum de dum

Exhale poetry with scarlet U2 embolism demolishes dents an entire world out there me capsized in the cave in a mountain dew bats flapping in my head I breathe new scents for a few sense amillia, vanilla will do me fine.

Inhale Exhale, a little cheech and chong, put it in a little pill for me. I want to kill that roach, don’t encroach on my spot, shit I see you got your eyes on a brand new spanking spaldine, bounce da ballie, brand new – higher than that kite you want to make take flight.

Fire your ass off stop sass saw me in half. I wanna make some war in cognito infinito, vagabond report retort a torte of flamingo a golden gal glimmer if I offer you a drizzle of Acapulco gold.

If you only got sensimilla, with nice big blue green buds, a thai joint will bend me fine, ven aqui, pasa lo, share it, … please.

Don’t do me like that. My hand’s open – greed.

Give me some of that weed, I need some time to digest the rest but so far will take I'm not a lawyer. I’m a voyear, not a destroyer, not part of the choir, I live in a temple excoriate licorice on my breath, a little violet lipstick, blissful babel bagel babe of a comet a carnal cattle pick up your bustle and hustle along. Mazel Tov!

Damask cilantro, don’t ask, another whiff of that smoke, floating up from all that patchouli incense I use to mask the scent of that hashish oil mixed with opium.

Up in smoke, again and it went.

COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS

Over the last three years,
three women tried to steal my sperm
one was true, she really loved me
she wanted to birth my baby,
I agreed cause I loved her

The other two said
they were on the pill
They just lied
I’m tellin’ you this
cause I know you’re concerned
you’re my very best friend
and I have to get it off my chest

And I’ll tell you right now:
I forbid you to put this in a poem,
I have dominant genes
for some recessive disease,
that although I don’t have it
my children will

Almost all the men in my family
are blinded by this malady
It’s a plague that eats away their sight
It starts in mid to late thirties
they’re stoned blind by fifty

So when Renee, the love of my life
says she wants to have my babies
I had a feeling I never had before:
that overwhelming primal urge
to shoot my sperm within her loins

and watch it swell into a baby
but when we tried
the seed failed to fertilize
And I discovered I was sterile

GOD HELP ME, I WAS DESPONDENT
EITHER WAY, I COULDN’T WIN GENETICALLY

Now I’m brokenhearted
Renee I loved and would’ve married
But she returned to her former lover
and implored him
to seed her female garden

Since then Renee begged me
to remain her friend
and I did because I
didn’t want her to think
I wasn’t man enough to do that
And to this day
I still love her

Now, I’ve got three to take her place
But don’t worry,
Let me set your mind at ease
I can’t be tricked into
being a blind progenitor
and I mean that both ways

I know I should be grateful
But none of them excite me
And although it’s satisfying,
I’m very lonely
for the woman of my dreams


From way back in 93, a true story told me by a close friend. First published in Ashville Poetry Review.

twitter

I started twitter joking about it. Twitter twatter, shitter, shatter was one of my first twitters shortly followed by twat shit damn lemmee write u sometin person all.
I still don't know what to make of it but I'm on for the ride, after all gotta be in the game to play it right?

Check me out at twitter. WTF, you got something better to do?

BLUES PART VI

An abuse a report I don’t retort I save my I for you
Sanity or peace – at the crossroads I want a piece of pie

I’ve got the virus so bad down my pipeline, I talk poetry instead of words, spittin rhymes all the time, lost memory recording rumination rhyming in time chillen. A virus striving to proliferate, probing pounding my mon venus, veins vibrating rhythms of poetry I can’t hold off any longer a vaccination didn’t cure the poetry virus my wounded soul carries, I can’t fathom who I am, where I exist in a labyrinth of sanity this way to feign pain to the inner sanctum.

Formatting bluebirds wrangling on a computer keyboard for seeds before flying off with obsidian torts in moonlight gazing settling stark naked on peeling disseminated trees branches.

Leave form for them who see more than I see who I say I am a local shape-shifter, birthed conscious universality of incense timed algorithms who constantly lie absorbing every I in my world of I’s am who they say they are and I am you, the I in my eye is same as your eye

I promise you the world today if only you’ll publish me the deed in lieu of foreclosure signed sealed and delivered –heart and soul for an ounce of the blues I’ve strung here stung here, be nice don’t stare don’t disrespect - I don’t want to be cuckolded either but everyone can’t be a stones’ throw away once the best will come to those who come knocking last ain’t x-actly held beholden true – ooh ooh your way is as good as trying to get when you got when you try anyway cause you can’t admit you’d ever give up or if you did how could you.

Absorb like a sponge with poetic touch a genius of sense sentiment each vertebra holds promise of spirit gazes crossing deserts of darkened psychopaths lost a vision, a sky light of delightful glimmers beckons to see murky ink beneath that star gaze.

Heart pussy dick one woman or man I can’t recall, point is, why can’t I be me first and second be my gender tell me is it my race, religion all copycatting social rejects, disaster, despondence and glee. Like a glacier rotting away I sit eating ice cream while the world degenerates, the landslide arrives in tow of my wisdom. All ow ance to tow my heart in lieu of surrender to a horrendous poetry deed –Buddha beckoning open window let the wind escape its misery accepted by this cityscape.

Gender race face all the rest glee gall all about who we know not who we are - love the poetic glow, get got a new face a new race a rhyme and rhythm hijacking inner flow has entered my soul and I got the blues here for sure, I got my face back on set, timed to society’s soul fell on face get up and go again brush of the dirt and wipe the tears choice.

Publish me I promise you I’m for sale in lieu of poetry foreclosure. I’ll lick your toes, fit your image sell my soul blow me say my name. I’m down with the devil as much as you are in society’s grasp. I strive to inhale exist side by side. Explore – search for more - heard about poetic genius the other day, got the bums rush - how cool is that for more.

Rain georgettes violets
poet laureate soul for sale
writer extroadinaire
poet for sale … how much will you pay?

A Little Thirst is all ... To Quench or A Completely Distasteful Yet Very Likely Story Explaining How Disease Travels...

The day had been a long one beginning with church in the morning and including relatives rarely seen. His sister Sara was getting married this Saturday coming and today was Christmas. His father’s sister, Audrey and her husband Delmar, had arrived yesterday from Albany with his niece, Farah, and nephew, Freeman, in hand.
The dinner feast had been served early and everyone was relaxing full with good foods, baked honeyed ham and stuffed Cornish hens. Sara and her fiancé, Delroy, stretched out on the sectional leather recliners of the couch watching some early night TV while the other adults shared laughs and drinks. Carlton sat in a corner of the kitchen watching the scene unfold like the dusk outside. Marisa sidled up to his mom and they whispered and giggled. His mom jiggled her boobs in her low cut dress. Carlton watched his Dad, Cornelius, standing near the RCA victrola humming to the music he played, spinning the stem of his glass of red wine. Freeman, who was sixteen, stood next to Cornelius pressing closer, and talking into his ear. Cornelius put his arm around the younger man’s shoulders and the two laughed.
Marisa passed her wine to Freeman, saying, “Want some baby? Yo’ mama don’t let you experiment too often and since I’m passin’ you the glass, you may as well cut loose with family first.”
Freeman accepted the wine shyly pressing his lips to the wine cup like an unknown lover. Carlton's mom passed by him and ran her fingertips along his spine coquettishly. She passed his chair and reached above his head into the cabinet for a clean glass passing it to Audrey. A chill passed through Carlton and he shivered involuntarily after her hand had left his skin.
“How bout you baby,” his mamma Carleen cooed to him, her fingertips eliciting a new shiver, you want a lil’ too, his mom said brazenly offering Carlton her half full glass.
“No, mom, I’m cool, ” Carlton said, thinking that twelve years old was still too young for drinking. He wondered how high his mom was.
Delmar entered the room, pulling his tie off with one hand and scratching his ear. As he passed by Audrey he playfully spanked her butt and as he passed by Carlene his arm passed fleetingly across her upper back to her waist. Carlton wondered if she shivered too the way he did when she touched him. Was that the way all touch was?
Carlton knew that his sister had told Audrey and Delmar that they could use her bedroom tonight and she’d also made it clear, that she’d be bunking in his along with Freeman. The little girl, Farah, would sleep on the couch and his parents would stay in their own room.
Carlton got tired of the show and went upstairs to be alone for a while. He turned up some Led Zep on his cd player using his headphones. Relaxed and nicely worn out, he let his mind wander and pulled one of his mags from under the bed. When he awoke it was dark in the room and he heard the sound of steady breathing. His sister was on the lower bunk bed with her leg hanging loosely over the edge. His cousin, Freeman, was on the upper bunk and Carlton listened as Freeman turned in his sleep, and a soft snore escaped his lips.
Carlton felt his penis engorged and got up to go take a piss. He put on a pair of pajama bottoms and then decided to go downstairs to get a glass of water. He passed by his niece who appeared calmly sleeping. The sectional recliners were still out and she lay there by herself. There was a soft night light from the kitchen. Carlton went to the sink and put his hand to feel the water. He stood a few seconds waiting for the water to run more coolly. When he felt satisfied, he drew a glass from the sideboard and filled it with cold water.
He sat on the couch next to his five year old niece swallowing huge gulps of water. Carlton went and refilled the glass and returned again. He again gulped. The ham had been very salty. He put the glass on the table and stretched out thinking the moonlight coming through the blinds was the perfect amount of light. He looked over at his curly headed niece who had turned towards him with eyes wide open. He looked into her eyes and felt that familiar thrill of a shiver pass over his body. The blanket had fallen from her and it twisted about her feet. The room was warm. He reached over intending to cover her and put his arm at her waist. Farah’s nightgown had slid up to her waist and she had no underwear on. He tugged at the hem, intending to pull down the skirt of her gown.
Instead Carlton impulsively reached around to her front caressing her mons pubis. Neither broke eye contact. With no intention of proceeding further, suddenly his fingers were between her labia. It was very moist and inviting. Carlton moved his index and middle finger very lightly, the moistness absorbing him, her eyes compelling him. He felt his finger blend into the moistness of the labia, his finger inhaled by a soft pliant wet crevice. The pleasure he felt reflected in the moonlight cast across her face and her gaze remained steady, her lips slightly parted like his mother’s when she ran her hands across his back. He pushed his third and longer finger down a bit more while his index played with her man in the boat. Farah sighed contentedly, her eyes fixed on his.
Carlton turned away feeling the hot rise of a blush full of shame, he hurriedly sat up. Earlier he’d refused a drink and now he’d touched his five-year old cousin. He looked at her once more in the eyes and she stared back supplicantly with doe eyes. He turned away and ran back up the steps to his own room and lay on the guest bed where he’d been earlier, before he had woken up to hear his sister and cousin’s snores and needed to piss and drink water. Isn’t that all that happened after all?

Reading writing ... equals literacy

The recent article I wrote on my blog, Our Educational System, spurred me on to re-examine how this system affects our young students and their skills. As a social worker who worked in our system in public high schools with teens from 13 to 21 years old for 16 years and then worked with pre-k children for another 5 years, I’d like to share what I learned about our children and their skills. This necessitates a comparison.
Back when I was in school we had five classes per grade, beginning with the number 1 class and proceeding to the number 5 class. Thus, there was 1-1, 2-1 etc. Logically speaking one would have thought that the 5 class would have been the slowest and the number 1 would have been the fast learners, however in my school, the 1 class was the “quick learners” and the number 2 class was the "health education class," which included wheelchair bound children and very slow learners. What really was strange was that everyone knew how to read albeit some read more slowly than others. Also everyone eventually learned to write as well. The slower learners weren’t as good with grammar and spelling and for many of the slower learners, spelling and grammar problems remained. I was always in the number 1 class as I was very precocious and generally learned anything to do with reading or writing very fast. My deficits were about where things are, so maps and map memorization was a problem for me. There were always more than 30 children in each class. In those days, my neighborhood, Washington Heights, (now called Hudson Heights by all the realtors) had many foreigners. The difference is that they were from many places, not like now when there are a handful of Russians and mostly Dominicans. There was a great influx of Puerto Ricans and Greeks to my area, and people from Russia and other Slavic nations (the nations now have since changed names). From the time when I was very young, all my teachers complained that I couldn’t keep quiet. Any foreigner was seated next to me and usually learned English quickly as I would share my notes and help them. This situation also seems unique now.
The first 5 years I worked with pregnant teens in high schools, I learned that over half of our students could not write a proper sentence. About half could write within two years of their grade level. About another quarter could write with many spelling and grammatical errors but the words would make sense. And the last quarter or 20% could not logically string one sentence to the next to write a cohesive paragraph on any given subject matter – even on one they know about. For example, if they were asked to write a paragraph on who is their favorite rapper and why, only half of them could do this successfully. I was dismayed to observe how poor their writing, reading and comprehension skills were. Teenagers 15 years old were writing at what I judged to be a second or third grade level. At this time, some of the high schools I worked at tried to get around this issue by teaching their youngsters to think and to argue out a point verbally. The principals applied for waivers from the state so the children could do a series of oral defenses and speeches instead of taking regents, where they learned to argue a thesis from beginning to end. I was impressed by what I saw but still, again, there was at least 40% who could not keep up to the regiment or structure and this was in spite of the judges trying hard to be very lenient. I wondered why our society had changed this much from the time I was a teen to now and I still don’t have an answer. I have met writers too who are good writers, and they cannot spell and don’t know proper grammar. Professional agents and book companies have told me, that they feel basic academic writing skill is unnecessary and unimportant. They say, what is important is that the person write well or rhyme well. I can round this out by adding that they will further say that's why they hire someone like me to do the editing and clean it up. And the weird thing here is that I know how to make street lit sound street lit enough and put in enough modernisms to make it a go on both sides too. White people and everyone else in the public schools now write Ebonics if they write at all. Proper writing is a dying skill today.
A few years back, a young man was sent to me from 9th grade. I was told to find out how he had gotten to this grade and couldn’t read or write at all. I did as I was told and apparently, he was such a sweet personality, that no one had paid attention to the fact that he couldn’t read an entire sentence. Even when given a children’s book for 5 to 7 year olds, he could barely read any of the words. OK, I admit this is unusual, but not as unusual as it seems. I have also met special education students who could barely write, but who could spout beautiful rhymes instantaneously apparently effortlessly as well.
I grew up without a television. Our radio broke when I was about 6 and wasn’t replaced for a few years. Books was my only entertainment, without which, I would have suffered even more than I did. As I tell everyone, my childhood was fraught with anxiety and despair. My mother was diagnosed with cancer when I was a few months old and the first year of my life welfare sent a series of caregivers to care for us so my dad could go to work. My mom was in hospital for about 6 months. We were have-nots in every way. I had two dolls which I had been given after I’d turned 6. I washed my own clothes and ironed them at 7 years old. Sorry, I wish I knew what childhood meant. One sister liked to play teacher and I learned to read and write to please her originally. I was reading and writing at 4 years old. I read and wrote for love.
Obviously I have no idea where this dilemma of our literacy is headed but one place it is headed is to put the entire onus for literacy on the teachers in the way of statistics like I described in the previous article. I also think that perhaps our society is going to return to a previous age when letter writers got paid and people got paid to read to others too. In the middle ages there was a particular class of people that were paid to perform this service for the general populace. Hey if I live long enough I can be one of those people. I urge you to talk to our teachers about this, talk to each other – you’ll see I’m not exaggerating.


Also check out this fascinating stuff:
John Taylor Gatto and his official website

Our Educational Sytem

Lorraine Kashdan got me started this morning on this educational memory lane tangent. I have a long history with the old Board of Education of New York City and the new Department of Education of New York City. Different names to feed us a new line of shit. I don't know how the educational system is in the UK but as the mom of an LD son and also because I worked (past tense) in our school system here for 21 years, I can tell you a lot. The system is a lot of bullshit and does not work to help you get what you need. Lorraine you touched a nerve! Ouch!
Our schools here in New York City, have experts from UK visiting here to rate us and telling our administrators how to improve but are UK success rates that much better? Our system here is about paperwork - not children's needs. Here you have to be an advocate for yourself and your children's needs. If you’re not – your children will fall through the cracks. Been there and done it and glad to be out of it on all counts ... professionally and personally - well not quite yet – as being involved with DubbleX means being involved with his son’s educational needs too.
I’ll give some history here then come back to my original thesis of how educational values are going down the drain and statistics are the on board values of the day and how now, raises will be given to those who have good statistics.
Back in the old days with the old board, my son was given several labels and diagnoses. As his condition changed and improved over the years he outgrew his diagnoses. The point is these diagnoses are all bullshit. The things to think about and work on are the child’s deficiencies. Once you have a clear idea of these deficiencies, it is easy to devise or find someone who can, a series of instructional lessons developed to meet these deficiencies. My son’s educational deficiencies were in reading/ writing and math. My help came from an older sister who told me to use phonics to treat the first and gave me specific instructions. She said start with the letters AT then move to AT and then take every letter of the alphabet to put in front of it. This was only for starters. Eventually through this system you’d work your way through every vowel. OT, OB, OD. The point of this is that I sat with my son with a notebook. I divided the pages into 4 columns. The other first columns are the original columns we created together and afterwards he copied each word to the other three columns after we had practiced saying them several times.
Following is a short example of how my son and I worked together. I’d sit with him. We’d both have our own notebook and I’d. I’d say to my son to kick off our learning session, “AAT is not a word, what about BAT? And I instructed him on sounds of each letter. After I wrote it on my own pad I’d wait while he copied in his first column. Then we’d go to C. CAT, etc. No doubt this was tedious but by the end of a summer following this routine my son’s grade level went up over 2.5 years. I also bribed him with whatever he wanted. Sometimes it was a special treat like burgers and fries at the local diner. Sometimes it was a comic book from the store. My sister ridiculed me when she found out I supported his love for comics and insisted he needed to read the classics. I read him Treasure Island. Honestly I didn’t remember this detail but my son happened to remind me of this the other day.
The math thing was very similar, beginning with the number 1 and adding 1 to 10 to number 1 and copying it over 3 times. Eventually we got to 10 plus 10. The minuses go the same route. 10 minus 1, 10 minus 2, 10 minus 3, etc.
There was a clear parallel development between my inner growth and development and his. The more I learned about how I could parent him without losing my temper and by using a series of tactics and maneuvers I could move things along for both of us. I developed as a parent as he grew and developed.
Later when he was older we memorized the times tables with great difficulty and eventually he was permitted a calculator in high school. He was permitted to substitute a computer course for Spanish since that seemed to be undoable for him. Strangely, he took a liking to sign language and learned some from a friend of mine quite easily. Pity, that wasn’t an option for him. Obviously his mind works differently and he has developed a different pattern of intelligence.
My son not only graduated high school with honors, when he was in 7th grade, his nation wide testing scores proved how much this had helped him. His reading level tested at 12th grade level. Comic books are a mother to read – try it yourself sometimes – comic book writers have a great vocabulary. My son is a college graduate. We accomplished this with the following tactic. He dictated while I typed. It worked better this way for the papers he was required to write on various subjects.
I am very disappointed in the value of the educational system. A close friend, a history teacher, told me the other day that he was put on the carpet about his regents stats not being high enough. Even when students come from another school and he has never met them before, or students he hasn't taught for several years, show up and take the regents in his school he is responsible for their grades on the regents. Tell me anyone – does this make sense?
After this, his principal met with him and wrote him up for not having high enough pass stats. This teacher wrote a reply saying that his scores were 15% higher if you took out the children he never met before. When you took out the children who he met but it was over a year ago, then it came up another 5%. Still 68% rate is not good enough. These are children who may miss a day or 2 or more each school week.
Then the principal followed this up with that he has to see every test this teacher gives the class at least a week in advance. This particular history –social studies teacher makes up weekly quizzes for each class. He was further instructed by his principal to write every question on any of his quizzes from recent regents exams given over the last 2 years. This teacher went and bought half dozen regents prep books and began reading them so he could do as he was told.
This high school social studies teacher couldn't believe that the word holocaust is never mentioned or that it is only called World War II and makes no written mention of the word Nazi. This teacher really lost his mind when he saw that none of these books made any written mention regarding the 6 million Jews who were killed. What is written instead is "many people were killed". Yes indeedy, many people were killed along with 6 million Jews, gays, Asians, Gypsies and all ethnic types mixed race/religion bloods. Our educational system is becoming a system of systemically fed mistruths or partial truths feeding our children a very watered down version. Teachers are going to be rewarded for good statistical reports - not well educationally rounded children. Our educational system is turning our future, our children; into insipient, easy to control robots while the rich and powerful continue take control. Our children won't know our past, which is necessary to creating a new future. Those who are in charge - including Obama - don't have their children attend our public schools! Our entire educational system is a political challenge to an endangered species - us.

Bluetry Full Circle Smoke Blues

Bluetry Coming Full Circle I Smell Smoke or Bluetry Full Circle Smoke Blues

I'm blown away in the smoke of my mind created by the smoke of the eye mind of your mind.
I'm gonna take a sip of that southern smoked cooking, finger lickin' chickin charcoal broiled smoke embers rising from ashes I'll meet you there after I get me some smoked salmon mr brant, I love me some smoke dreams, with perfect seams, flawless rising in silver swirls

Frenetic – full of poetic madness I arise out of smoke slowly rising flowing from discarded disregarded embers of burned words into mad repetitive self perpetuating silver swirls.

My bluetry emerges at that speak-easy softly lit smoky lounge on the left where the mood is set with red and orange burning embers candle lights giving off smoke rising in silver swirls.

The crowd inhales my words and exhales patchouli oil scent silver swirls of smoke rising.

On a roll – jelly-roll - my bluetry spell has taken its toll, let the good times roll, and forget about sorrows or tomorrow, think about today. I'm too busy, come tomorrow there's a lot more networking to do.

Lost in a series of masquerades, delusions to who I am allusions and illusions - let er rip for old times sake daddy sing me those blues tonight!

Under the magnolia tree I fell skinned my knee, the sky ripped open clouds burst and the street went up in smoke I thought I must’ve toked some real good stuff because next thing I knew whole city was up in smoke and I was with a chartered band going nowhere fast and an open wound read my prayers somewhere those blues those blues were wailing, the trombone feels my blow as my words flow to slow the utterance of my soul, the whole world is up in smoke unless you stop try the tracks we’re on. I’m sorry I gotta move on – all this smoke is getting in the way of my living.

Living aggrieved in poetic frenzy- I give my life away up in smoke going once twice sold, I can’t capitulate capitalize civilize cooperate encapsulate, insulate any more, just let go let the good times roll you can’t always get what you want and if you try sometimes you may just find what you need and so lady smoke had her way with me, she got to me finally in my ever evolution I keep searching for solutions.

I need someone to love, fit me like a glove, turn down that candle now. It’s giving off to much smoke I can’t inhale. I wanna make some love now, play those blues in the background while I put my life on hold, sit here waiting for you to get your shit together and taken aback by constellation of fate I’ll read the emancipation proclamation to see if I understand you. I’m a jew, you know, and they been trying to eliminate jews a long time from the main stream.

Keep us all quiet with our little asses fighting each other to keep our masses down. We stay redundant - reducible to molasses while the conspiracy roars in my ears we keep fighting one other instead of taking their asses down a notch or two.

I’m so blue I can’t breathe. All that smoke – the whole world is up in smoke, not a joke.

Up in smoke.

Billie Blues Part 5

Consumerism’s got the best of me in spite of my fighting so hard to maintain the good thinks in life. I keep fighting a losing battle. I want to believe the best things in life are free but I get stopped in my tracks.

Buy buy buy they implore, while I have nothing left to buy with except very extended credit debts. I’m outta cash supply, debts mount easily. Buy, buy, buy, come read poetry. Buy a glass of wine. You can’t sit there and read. You’ve got to pay your dues too. Don’t forget the entrance fee. Cough it up.

Tons of paper discarded daily senselessly. No one could be so sad. Trees ask me to tell them why they’re born to be discarded they wail about their senseless lot, they live to be - they ask me if I know why it’s like this, what’s all this suffering for? I cry. I cry.

Lights on in every room whether you’re home or not to keep the burglars away. In Harlem Mexicans crowded 3 families to each apartment while we pay taxes to build another Yankee Stadium right next to the one already there. The rich pay more for private boxes while Mexicans live in NYC barracks, 20 in a 3 room apt, barely able to pay the rent. Please I beg you give the poor some of my taxes instead I plead. They turn a deaf ear. Please, please?

I sit in my room looking out at the rain, no one could be so sad. Gloom everywhere, I sit and I fear, I don’t know what the world is coming to.

Kill canned hunts. WTF, what kind of concept kills caged animals for a few dollars from the rich? I can’t wait. I want to kill hunters; torture them watch life slowly drain from them, their heads lolling to one side. I place their head on my lap. Take a pic too, like they do to the lioness bleeding from her mouth, trying to feed her cubs behind the fence, teats full of milk. Make them like quarry, my pray, another trophy.

You can’t hide from the ugliness I try to hide I do, I do. I can’t take much more.

I sit in my chair filled
Filled with despair.
No one could be so sad.
gloom everywhere, I sit and I stare. What’s the state of the universe? Is there anybody out there?

The ugliness all a glow, picture show for family. Bring up your moohlah! We got yours here. Worse than Sodom & Gomorrah. My soul’s for sale. Name your price! Sold to the devil at the crossroads!

This revolution will not be televised; will not put the shine back on your teeth. Civil rights gone, lives tapped into by government, someone’s in control somewhere. Not me, hey, I’m all alone in here waiting for the pain to go away. I sit in my chair full of despair, no one could be this sad.

I cry to trees. They hear my pleas. No one else does.

Please! Please. Is there anybody out there?

Bluetry by DubbleX with Violet

Days vanish in the world pool of time grabbing a few moments before the tsunami of tomorrow washes away memories in a violent abrupt reality and leaves you clinging to a branch of yesterday pulled out to sea to swim in a thousand tomorrows to be drowned in the whirl pool of today

Proletarians keep staring and wondering what happen to their millions
Society did not make me crazy but it certainly is not good for my sanity
Joy forces circles into squares it works for her
Sometimes life is forcing circles into squares

You rescue me
You are my EMS my NYPD my NYFD my doctor my nurse
You care for me when at my worst
You quench my love thirst

I get so fucking tired of talking to machines
I say stuff and machines don’t know what I mean
I get so vexed I start to scream
I push cell buttons
I press 0 for the operator but only the machine talks to me
They program it so that it has a slightly husky partly raspy computer voice
They even have a machine that talks in a black voice

I am gonna die you’re gonna die too but before we all leave this whole worlds gonna know that we came thru am who I am and do what I do
You do what do you do you let the world know that DubbleX and Violet came through

the only people that drown are the ones that panic
I wanta chill gotta try do or die
maybe one day man won't die
maybe one day people will no longer cry
maybe one day will come
When color is nothing more then a rainbow in the sun

Life is one drop of bittersweet wine don’t whine dropping off the lips of time-spilled fine wine the drop runs off the table and stains the rug, splash, a new design
Is this life span in time before your drop-splashed life love as long as this dash between birth and death last
These atoms represent me
They are nameless; they are contained in me
My atoms go deep to my soul energy
Everything you see is made of vibrating energy
These atoms are me labeled walking upside down in my spiritual anatomy

Mimicking Marilyn Nelson (a tribute)

Every once in a while I like to mimic other authors. Early on in this blog is a mimicking Marguarita Duras. Don't know why it tis' I like to do so, perhaps to show I can. This mimicking Marilyn Nelson was written in 2000 in a class where we were studying her works. The professor later asked us to mimic an author in style. I've caught her flavor here and pass it on for you to judge. Pity I don't recall the name of her original poem.



Lorraine stood barefoot by the parlor door
Watching the dancers glide across the floor
She’d polished smoothly on her knees that morning
along with every other household thing

Her cakes are all the rage that night
and Miss White’s gown is oh so tight
about her waist, while Lorraine’s pastries
draw the guests to glance her way, she giggles

Mister Tyler draws near to the parlor door side
Where Lorraine stands peeping, holding the drapes aside
His hand stretches out to touch her shoulder
Then drops to encircle her waist, they shudder.

Lorraine fidgets to escape his firm embrace
Swiftly he spins her while tilting up her face
at an angle to gently meet with his left hand
Lorraine feels ashamed, all those ladies dressed right - so grand

Spinning frantically across the room, she spies Mr.Tyler’s uncle
his face masked with a smirk and disapproval.
Whirling and turning, her face glowing hot, hot, hot
Mister Tyler grins, pleased by her embarrassment

and the power it gives him, the control over Lorraine
never foreseeing a future with their son
who he would claim to own, yet refuse to raise
Lorraine alone would love her son, and for this, give praise

MORE ON JESUS ND BEING JEWISH

Am I proud to be jewish -
I am and I’m not,
I don’t know I guess

I’m proud of being jewish
because being jewish means
to be educated, a literary lunatic
in certain circles,
you know what I mean
I know they had tough jews
my father sat on the cusp of that realm
on the outskirts of the jewish mafia

nd ... I suppose...I’m as liberated -
nd as free as one would want to be
or can imagine to be in this society
or any other, again, I suppose
But you asked me
Am I proud to be a jew

I am but when people make disparaging remarks
such as jews are cheap
or you killed jesus
jesus please forgive me;
I wasn’t born yet to suffer for ur sins

so I ask you; if jesus died for ur sins
then forgive me please
and if he died for mine
forgive me again please
but remember jesus is my forefather
and I do follow his path
being an upstart and all
runs in my family
saying what I mean, and doing what I say -
follows jesus also and is why he died for our sins
Isn’t it?

Jesus was an upstart and so am I
our big and honest mouths get us in trouble
So much time wasted arguing & fussing
when we’re all only visitors here of our own demise.

Sestina Of Life

Crisis is either way you lose
different from win some lose some
Gotta keep plugging along
light at the end of the tunnel
a new moon wilderness
my heart, a song of desire

my psyche is brimful desire
momentarily mine, a life lost
new spring & full moon wilderness
Just a little more, more time some
times life is like winding tunnels
gotta keep plugging - moving along

I don’t follow others, I move along
to my own beat, why admit what I desire
Is it there at the end of this tunnel
If I can’t see I’ll surely get lost
again even if sometimes I win some
This city is just like a wilderness

wild flowers, blue birds, mosquito wilderness
and danger lurks so best choice all along
not always clearly heard say some
Pretend to have or not have desire
There are only painful losses
hidden away in underground tunnels

skin deep vicissitudes tunneling
to surface; a wild card in a missing wilderness
of light, Ye of little faith, you can’t lose
I’ve known it my entire life, all along
Finally, the truth! My heart’s desire
I’ve come into my own; I’ve come into some

O.K. I’m content it’s this much, then some
Found there while digging an underground tunnel
solidified in old accomplished signs of desire
on the sun’s desert moon of the wilderness
scent of bergamot trailing along
Nostalgic gazes fazing ambitious loss

loss doesn’t mean I don’t have some
left like our lives tumble along a tunnel
of love and encompass a wilderness of desire

WASHINGTON HEIGHTS IS HOME

Someone found my online photo album and saw the photos I'd posted of One Sickles Street both inside and out of the building. She wrote and told me she also grew up in Washington Heights in the same area where I live. She wrote, “Things look different yet the same”. She recognized the building on One Sickles Street where she had grown up and which has now been renovated. She commented on its revived beauty and said she should visit. She told me she often thinks of visiting that building and surrounding area. She now lives in Queens.
“Yes,” I wrote her back, “you should before it's too late and you wont be able to. You know how life is, it passes by so fast; there's never enough time to count up our regrets.” Think of all the times we say we'll do something and that something never comes to pass.
I still live in the area where I was born in Washington Heights. I wonder if it's like at the end of the galaxy where the further away you live from where you were born, the more chaos you create in the universe. I literally live 2 blocks from where I was born, in Jewish Memorial Hospital, which is now JH 218. If that's true, why have I been through so much? It seems as though I've survived an unending mass of crises always waiting to be resolved.
It's strange to leave the neighborhood where you've always lived, especially when you only live in another section of the same neighborhood or even another borough of the same city. Then like the lady who wrote me, although you're still very close to where you grew up, you feel as though you're a million miles away. Sometimes nostalgia sets in and we desire what we perceive as lost. Even when what was lost was never that great - maybe even painful - when we had it back then.
I had a hard life as a youngster and feel like the female counterpart to Jim Carroll who wrote Basketball Diaries - who also grew up in Washington Heights and also began writing from an early age. I began writing as a small child seeking love and approval. My life actually became a parody of looking for love in all the wrong places - obviously because I wasn't getting enough in the right place. This sure didn't make living any easier.
I never had a childhood because as a child I was forced to deal with adult concerns. The good part of this is that my past made me who I am; a social worker devoted to helping people move ahead and also to get benefits they're entitled to. I've devoted over twenty-two professional years helping people attain their goals, and spent many more years as a concerned citizen who helps others. Hey now that I've given up social work and spend my time writing, I still help people all the time. Don't ask why.
Now as an adult, I've been able to fulfill many desires I had as a child and I've been able to do this in my birthplace, right here in Washington Heights. I've gone from being a high school dropout to being an Ivy League drop-in; I'm a double alumna of Columbia University. My undergraduate BA is in Anthropology and my Masters is in Social Work. I'm living proof of someone who has pulled themselves up through the system by my bootstraps. It was very difficult. One of the major pluses was how I capitalized on being poor and undereducated and got my ivy league B.A. for free. You'll have to read my stories on how that came to be. Now I hold two master's degrees, one in social work and the other in creative writing from CCNY. Now that I've made it into middle class life, I can't afford the best and Ivy League anymore. CCNY is affordable for a working person and Columbia is not. Now, I have to pay for everything, sometimes more than others. Like in our Mitchel-Lama Cooperative, I pay a 50% surcharge.
I have a clear message to anyone else who feels like they've been through it all and had enough. After all is said and done, I'll repeat what Irving Miller, my honored social work professor said, after he called me “a Mitzvah to humanity.” Mitzvah means gift. He said I have an inherent understanding of people's needs and how to help them move ahead, that my self-awareness and acceptance of my own eccentricities and flaws make it easier for me to accept others.
I agree with him; you must learn to accept who you are. The most important thing I learned from Irving Miller, is this, "Celebrate your problems, it means you're alive." The other important thing he taught me is that “Just because you're crazy doesn't mean you're stupid.” This is a very important message because there are a lot of crazy people out here. Crazy I don't mind- evil - is another story. We all carry our own craziness!
After all is said and done, my message to you remains the same, "Don't put off until tomorrow what you can do today. Attack your problems with vigor as new ones crop up to replace the ones that have been resolved. Most importantly, always have a goal in sight and make certain it is an attainable one."

Another Round More: Pleas For The Planet Blues Part 4

I am warm in here. Out there it’s 20 degrees with a northeasterly wind. I don’t care except that the trees are confused. They can’t decide whether it’s time to wither down & go bare or should they bud. They talk to me and ask me but I say I don’t know. Cause, yo, it’s so crazy out here. You know, crazy for everyone, not just crazy for a sister but crazy for a tree. Al Gore says it’s global warming moving at a faster rate than presupposed before and the naysayers in the crowd out here argue this validity. I don’t know who to believe. Yesterday was 50 degrees. Today it’s snowing violently violet with a strong breeze. I can barely see through the thick curtain of white wet snow relentlessly cascading down outside. 50 degrees yesterday, yo sister, yo brother, yo …

What’s it to you if I dream away my solitude? Write poetry in my spare time. Spare time that used to be 1 minute is now 2. I don’t have time to work a regular gig. I’m too busy writing poetry and have too many other things to do.
In my solitude you haunt me
With dreadful ease
Of days gone by

As I stroll past, I hear the trees say they don’t know what to think but should I care? I return inside where it’s warm from the glow produced by oil & coal from the furnace. I don’t need to know what’s causing this interruption of flow of service on my network. I keep telling others to listen to reason, use all your resources to power the nation. Power the Mojave Desert with miles & miles of solar panels and we’ll all be warmed free for life. There’ll be very little strife I promise. The economy will be trite without these services sold to the hilt, but we’ll all have our lights and warmth. Our services will be free if you’ll only please see what I see and power the Mojave desert with miles and miles of solar panels please please.

I hear cries from everywhere world wide, voices echoed & etched in the wind of tides,

Them that’s got shall get
Them that’s not shall lose
So the Bible said and it still is news
Mama may have, papa may have
But God bless the child that’s got his own
That’s got his own

You are so in love with you I see, but then who wouldn't be?
What is it with all the beautiful artists always taking self-portraits? Good self-esteem I guess?

Let kaleidoscope wings help my spirit soar, I want more, to fly away to exotic faraway shores where no one knows me where I can seek evolution and solutions, maybe even start a revolution.

Joy reading Bluetry

demetrius daniels doing word speak

busy bee be me still...

I'm doing so much I'm going into a tailspin. Our second issue of The Cartier Street Review came out this week, on my birthday and the first day out had over 100 hits. I'm particularly proud of this issue because using the art was my idea and I chose all the artists except for Bernard Alain's mother, Anatholie Alain. I would have chosen her had I seen her art. The artists were chosen from facebook. I want to buy Bettina Burch’s pink lady for me.
This year has bounced off very successfully and it’s only begun. Wheelhouse Mag requested audio from DubbleX and me and published 4 of our audio poems . Afterwards I offered to promote them and have done so. Michael Annis accepted So A Black Man Is President from DubbleX and the first of my Bluetry series, I sing the blues for you today for omega magazine. The poem I sing..., is now being published for the 4th time. I am also publicist for omega magazine at facebook and will be helping Michael Annis and Heller Levinson promote hinge theory. The upcoming omega (yes click on omega) magazine is still soliciting submissions.
Thumbs up to Nabina Das for giving me the heads up that Kathi Georges from Three Rooms Press was seeking submissions for the new edition of Dada poetry magazine called Maintenant 3. Kathi said she loved both and there was room for one. She took 15 minutes of fame. I’m so happy and a shout out to Kathi Georges for doing this. Please read more about Kathi Georges and DaDa poetry at Nabina Das’ blog & at Three Rooms Press .
Mad Swirl took three more of my poems, (they already had I sing the blues for you today); Spreading Wildcat Fire, Another Round More: Pleas For The Planet Blues Part 4, and Singing Billie’s Blues By Me, Part III. Readerjack.com accepted three of DubbleX’s love poems to be published in their love is in the air contest, Untraditional Love, love junkies and hungry for love.
Since January, The Cartier Street Review published Tribute to John Coltraine by DubbleX along with free syle spitting rant, Manhattan forest or zoo, and Hide & Seek. Angels With Broken Wings, (a shout out to publisher - poet Roxie Hoffman for this one), accepted for those on the inside by DubbleX.
Crisis Chronicles Online Library published I Sing The Blues For You Today in January 2009 and so did The Cartier Street Review along with Alien Planet of Lesbian Lovers and Blues Part II.
Blog Critics published my Book Review For The May Queen by Kate Evans in February 2009. In March, The Cartier Street Review published my review of Daniel Borzetzky’s one size fits all and my poem, Spreading Wildcat Fire. Brownstone Poetry Reading run by Patricia Patricia Carragon, accepted Mexican delight.
Ooops just opened an email from readerjack.com and they accepted 3 of my submissions too, Is it love or attraction, Love Helps Things Fall Into Place Pantoum, and Twisted, A Sestina Of Love.
Wow, I’m on a roll - jelly roll - let the good times roll, and forget about sorrow. I'm too busy, come tomorrow there's a lot more networking to do, lost in a series of masquerades, delusions to who I am allusions and illusions - let er rip for old times sake daddy sing me those blues tonight!

Dead Long Ago

All those people? Dead long ago. Most of `em anyway
They ate up all the lead, used so many drugs
Their bodies shot to shit, they’re all dead
Some’s left, see em once in a while
walking down the street,
Standing in the rain, trapped
Stuck on their methadone, loving it, not moving on

Heroin was good in the 60’s, plentiful and cheap,
My friends and acquaintances died from o.d.’s
Me? I never used it. Uhh ... O.K., I tried it once,
You know what they say about birds flock together
I flocked, beats me what for, but I did,
Truth is that flock was better n’ home
What? You want to know if I had a good home?

I thought that flock was better n’ home,
14 years old hanging with the addicts.
So sorry, at 14 it was alchies. Alcoholics.
Yeah, tried that too, didn’t like it none
Having babies for a black man, angry alcoholic
He became a junkie. I saw him not long ago

Asked him when I saw him,
“Why were you so mean?”
“Don’t know,” he said to me,
“Couldn’t hep myself, I guess.”
He tells me, “I’m HIV now, got a hernia so bad
my balls swoll up down to the floor.”
He was a god-damned strong man at 20.
I saw him press 250 pounds. Handsome too
6 feet tall, 180 pounds, muscular, well built
He had lots of girls. Gave me gonorrhea 30 years ago.
30 years ago I told him about our baby
“Shoe box size,” he said when
I held my hands up to describe
“Coffee color with lots of cream,”
I said about the baby’s skin.
Dead 30 years ago.

In the middle of the night they came, 2 a.m. or so,
Said “Your baby’s gone, you can see him now you want.”
Gone, born 2 days and a half ago,
“You can see him now you want,”
the doctor’s hand resting on my shoulder

I birthed him glimpsing his coffee
colored skin with lots of cream,
They took him away,
never `lowed again another see
“His lungs were half formed,” they said,
“You can see him now you want.”

Begging for 2 days and a half, not allowed.
“You can see him now you want.”
“What for?” I said, “I wanted him alive.”
“Too bad. So sorry. You can see him now you want.
At least let us do an autopsy.
Save some other woman pain like you.”

So Sorry. Trapped in a time warp.
Childhood? What Childhood? Childhood what?
So sorry. Never, ever heard the word.
Can’t imagine what it means.


* Note: This poem was written over 15 years ago and it still stands powerful.

3 Poems from Dianne Borsenik

These Places

sound like some astronomer's
wet dream

labia majora
clitoris
gluteus maximus
areola

sensations launched
from fingerpads
streaking
from point to point
traveling at the speed
of a synaptic kiss

this astronaut blinded
by the constellations
forming in your sweat-slick
pale universe

looking for that
Big Bang

______________________________
Summer And Smoke

he holds his cock
like a paintbrush
touches her
white body
with long careful
strokes
he trails magenta
flame
down her spine
feathering
the edges
he dips
again and again
into the bright
wet pools of color
finishes
with stipples
of sweat and cum

sometimes
late at night
and alone
she dreams the blush
of the eastern sun

and she can hear
his Picasso
and she can taste
his Monet
_______________
First Kiss

Rising from a swimmer's dream
of coral and dappled light,
he skims off the beads
of sleep that slick his
eggshell skin.

The sky turns to smoke.
Stars, sprinkled like raw sugar
over the lake, sweeten
his dreams.

The night is different
here, where forgotten shadows
bend silver to their will.
The round nipple
of the full moon rises.

He tastes the honey
of her blood, holds it
on his tongue and remembers
vanished flowers.

Click here to Dianne's links 1
#2 link

Low Kay Shun by John Burroughs

If you see Kay
Tell her I love her
Miss her
Wish she were on the menu

If you see Kay
Tell her I'm sorry
She's not allowed in this venue

Not sure why
Doesn't make much sense
Might have something to do with religion
Or the government.

Her friends Whore and War are welcome anytime
But if you see Kay
Tell her no way!
She can't come.

Most everyone else
Can come til they're dumb though.

A few other folks are welcome as long as
They wear the acceptable contextual clothes:

Dick Van Dyke
Can come as often as he likes
But buy him
Own him
Call him my Dick
And he's not welcome.

Billowy pussy willows
Can blossom and blow as they wish
But own one
Mention that "My pussy will O..."
You'll soon discover
That fair or bare or not
In this place
You're pussona non grata.

My Ps and Qs and I
Are free to come and go
And lie as often as we will

But if you see Kay
Tell her the powers that be
Have had their fill of her
And swill like her
Is barred from the menu
In this venue
By the men who'd rather
Go home and sin you
While warning a word like you
To not intrude on their poetry
Their peach
Pity free dumb of speech
In this low Kay shun.

For those of you that are not familiar with John's work, he maintain two running blogs in addition to a blog where he features the rest of us. I applaud his efforts and hard work and someday I'm going to make it to his open mic and rock it down! Below are his links. There's some fascinating stuff and a wide range of it too. I saw him read this one on his blog and wanted it with the video but the embed html wouldn't work. For now I can share the poem and will try to add the video later. Enjoy!

John Burrough's website

Jesus Crisis Blog

Crisis Chronicles Online Library

link to watch the video on hisspace

Busy as busy bee me...

I want my blog readers to know I haven’t abandoned you. I’ve been working very hard in my position as production editor at The Cartier Street Review. I want you all to know I’ve earned the title. We both put a lot of effort into creating this magazine that is evolving as we speak. We will continue to spotlight a writer each issue. In the upcoming issue we will be including a new section of reviews since people like the reviews on my blog.

Kate Evans' book For The May Queen

Daniel Sumrall's echap Well Enough

I am actually receiving many books and requests from writers to review poetry chaps as well as full length novels & other works. Upcoming in reviews will be Daniel Borzutzky's one size fits all published by scantily clad press.

Through our creative inputs and ideas we will now be breaking up the writings with people’s artwork photos etc. We’re also working on layout and may make some changes. We’re experimenting. Submissions will remain the same. If you feel more comfortable submitting to me you may do so. If you prefer you may submit to Bernie, principal editor. Directions on submissions are at the website.

The Cartier Street Review

If anyone has any suggestions about how we can improve feel free to write. Our numbers have grown tremendously, which I take credit for and am proud of. I thank all of you for your love.

More News:

As many of you know I am working on a series of Bluetry poems. Yessireee folks, I made up a name for the series. Today I worked on Bluetry #7 & #8. I have only posted up to number 3. I'm saving some for he who comes last, pun intended.

More more new shit:

I recently got involved in pomoting wheelhouse mag at fb. DubbleX was recently online in a fb chat with David Michael Wolach, principal editor of wheelhouse mag (this link to actual mag.) David asked DubbleX to submit audio for the upcoming version of wheelhouse. He said he loves our audio files! He's labeled me editor and I guess I'm actually the publicist since he needs none of my other work. Give a shout out to wheelhouse and their increase in numbers - whooeee!

Don't ask - don't know where that talent comes from but at fb I created a club for Ira Lightman and his numbers are way up.

I've also pumped up the volume for Turntable & Bluelight Light Mag. I helped wordsalad mag too. I also often feature artists and writer on my facebook profile page. You know who you are. At DubbleX's urging I started our fan club too at fb.

Way New Shit!

I've agreed to get involved in promoting hinge theory and we (Michael Annis, Heller Levinson & I) are in puppy dog stages in this planning process. I am awaiting my package from Michael Annis which is going to introduce me to hinge theory. Look at Heller Levinson's work on line and at the latest edition of The Cartier Street Review to get more of a clue about hinge. Fascinating! Michael has graciously accepted my first bluetry poem, I Sing The Blues For You Today for publication in OMEGA 7. Just got news from Shotgun Slim Sneako aka Michael Annis that So A Black Man is President will be included in OMEGA 7 too.

Singing Billies Blues By Me, PART III (to read)

I implore you look outside the plate window. See how the wind whips the sky. I hear its wail above city sounds way up here in my 16th floor prison here in the Heights. I implore you free me from my tears have become the storm outside. Hear me wail, your other half – We are one, you know us well. Watch me flail, I can’t find a rail to hold onto. I don’t want to fall, but it’s slippery out here. Give me your hand to hold to cross the space.

My fingers ice, froze near the window where I continue to type absorbed in my hype about reality. Nice stories neatly told and packaged for your delight, passed to and fro. I cast my spell; create my own heaven & hell, my well of desire bursting forth.

My family gave me up for lent. Is that the answer or the end? Am I worth more now or less? Where to explore next, I remain sure in my search, I’m seeking answers with leaps of faith, I promise I am I am.

In my solitude
You haunt me
With memories
Of days gone by

4 days in a row I refuse to leave my abode. I can’t go, I should go to the gym, and won’t. I refuse to agree I’m depressed too not just dubblex. I don’t give in to my own reality, the fatality. He’s too old for me with circumspect dark moods. My youthful vision revives him, gives him sight again. All trite and true, not right, not poetry, I swear, reality I swear.

I sit in my chair
And filled with despair
There’s no one could be so sad
With gloom everywhere
I sit and I stare
I know that Ill soon go mad
I implore you stay here

Ahh - a golden glimmer of god finally shines through my frozen world of youthful delight. I see the sun, the truth you held forth for me to see. The sky parts open to expose a bright silver streak of light, the wind so strong it sounds like thunder in my lungs. I want to explore you & forget reality. Let’s talk poetry instead.

The galaxy of my heart swoons for paradise in lost expressions & protestations of love. My blue teardrops tenderly drip down your face. Your faith shadows mine. I bend to kiss your lips like blackberry wine the kiss drips from my lips. None of this is metaphor the wind screams in my face; this is reality. My life left undone. Get a new life tomorrow whispers the wind accompanies my heart returns to the blues in lieu of deed. I sigh with relief though the frustrated wind blows relentlessly without thoughts or feelings about how I feel. I wish she’d stop stop stop in her own good time they say, Okay I say Okay.

A ‘how to manual’ tattooed on heart make me easy to read. Patience, a dash of virtue goes a long way. Make peace not war I implore. W.T.F. about virtues instead? Peace unending everlasting enchanting chore this side of shore. This side of paradise hear my crying my flow of golden words they sing my open heart song for you alone, misty blue hear my wail of thunder & despair. I don’t want to care - I do.

GLOBAL WARNING VERSUS SURVIVAL INSTINCTS

We forget that this world is naked
we attempt to clothe her with our futility
we dress her up with structures
get her drunk on chemicals - get her high with pollution
then wonder why she is now ill
we question where has the water gone; it used to rain and snow here and there
we seem dumbfounded that certain plants no longer grow
and countless animals have disappeared
the world is still naked but we dress her up in heels
as we dig our oil wells spikes to her core strip mine her land
we alter her with breast implants of nuclear plants
we dye her sky hair with colors of radiation
and we wonder why she is balding; the hole in the ozone layer grows
we take her out dancing - use her for are personal pleasure
then wonder why she is suffering with a fever that is steadily warming
we try to shape her and drape her with our form of beauty
then complain our cities
We feed her our trash and then wonder why things are now out of balance
We care for her not and are surprised how quickly she is now aging
the only problem is we forget that she is carrying us daily in her arms

Dubble X wrote the above verse; his partner, JL, wrote the second verse

Dubble X and I combine our verse to praise our mother earth
I want to power the Mohave desert with miles and miles
Of solar panels – enough to run the entire planet
Power the world on solar energy
I want to do this because I love mother earth,
Worship her in her design, she is my creator
The creator of the generations of humans and time
Creator of our earth she bestows grace, productivity proclivity and life
I want to power the Mohave desert with miles and miles of solar panels
So the earth will survive
So my children’s children and yours
Will inherit the earth, so they
Will have a planet on which to reside
A planet that supports life
Because as it stands now
Mother Earth will survive while humanity will die out
The ice age is coming…
Mother Earth will survive …
She will begin the cycle all over again
Will have a planet on which to survive

Check out Don Coorough's essay, On the Organization of an Enlightened and Ecologically Sound Community

Blues Part III

first time using a band and the camera battery goes dead. You can hear the band jamming to my tune. Usually there's no camera around to catch this impromptu salad. Last night there was a gal at the redroom who was taping me and some others. She said she'll upload to youtube and then tell me - in the meantime you can check this Youtube link.

EChap Review: Well Enough

When I asked Daniel Sumrall if I should write a review for his chapbook Well Enough at goodreads, he told me not to bother because people were either indifferent or hostile to his work. This naturally made me more curious .
Although I had a million and one things to do, I decided to read his poetry. Sumrall’s style is approachable and easy to understand. I’m not struggling to understand his meaning and can enjoy his intent, at least with the first poem.
His beginning poem begs the question of privacy in an open space on telephone. In the public domain is about listening in to someone’s personal conversation and then seeing that the other person has caught you doing this and they know you have heard and understood their conversation. He compares this to “a knife’s intense precision when hands lack curative intent.”
Ah, guess I spoke too soon about easy to understand. “If landscape rolls out like a body” refuses to feed me the same way as the poem above now “I must penetrate the city’s architecture towers from erections and penetrations upon the earth…no more natural or necessary as the sea ripped with waves in a chiseled man’s abdomen.” gives me more food for thought and I can flow with sensuousness of the prose. I’m not at expert in poetry or about writing metaphor or similes, alliteration or any of these things, and I don’t claim to be. I feel words that make me move inside. I write what I feel and this is what Mr. Sumrall does too. Now I know why people are either indifferent or hostile to his poetry.

I am adding more links for people who would like to read more free chapbooks.

scantilycladpress
goldwakepress

A Review Of For The May Queen by Kate Evans

I started reading For The May Queen disliking the title and cover. That’s an early and easy prejudice to get through. The title made sense after I read the line of the song it had been taken from, referring to lyrics from Stairway to Heaven. I especially didn't like the cover photo. The model didn't look young at all, with dowdy looking clothes she looked about thirty years old, staring at a wilted flower. I would have preferred a photo of a punked up looking rock girl with a stoogie and attitude. Once I got past these minor flaws and prejudices, the book flowed from beginning to end. I finished the book in less than twenty hours.
Very simply written, in first person, the dialogue flows along with the story. I’ve always been curious about what it would have been like to go to college as a teen since I never experienced it. It’s difficult to read Evan’s book For The May Queen and not compare one’s own experiences since that’s what this book is all about; Norma’s early experiences and learning to be on her own while attending college. I never had a childhood or teen years & was forced to be adult beyond my years because of my family situation. I didn’t get to go to college until I was twenty-eight years old. Me going to college was all about “fixing” my life and having a career so I could support my son as a single mom. Naturally the stepping-stones and rituals that Norma focused on made me curious.
Norma defines the ritualistic separation that takes place when we leave home for the first time and how this evolves along with her search of self. Parallel to this young Norma simultaneously seeks her voice as a writer as she searches for her identify. Part of Norma’s learning experience is the richness of people she’s exposed to and drawn to. Naturally drawn to nonconformists Norma recognizes her own hidden depths and how she too is somehow different.
Norma at first only knows herself through how she imagines her friends see her. When she discovers her roommate is gay and realizes the special closeness he had with another mutual male friend is based on this, Norma begins to question her sexuality. She realizes that she loves Chuck because he inspires her to see the world differently. Chuck’s “movie vision view” of the world & his capacity to quote Casablanca and make it fit everyday events make him special. Norma disappoints Chuck after a night of sex & love, by protesting to her unfaithful boyfriend who shows up unannounced that “it meant nothing.” This ends the romance between her & Chuck but after this occurrence Norma begins to explore her inner motivations more.
Kate Evan’s book engrossed me with its sharp wit & humor. I couldn’t help but get involved with her characters. They are similar to the highly artistic creative people we know, each with his own brand of quirky eccentrics. Her characters are real; I could hear their voices.
A very fast reader and entirely engrossing, I highly recommend Ms. Evan’s first novel, For The May Queen. As a former educator I would recommend this book for high school students as well as adults.

This review was published also at blogcritics.com

BLUES PART II

The who am I lost & found in who I am, a contradictory introspection of a delusion of who I want to be mixed with who I already am, the me that is so deep it transcends lucidity the me that fires synapses constantly. I am the me with no home inside, listless, desolate, discontent, abjective, retrospective, lost in grim moments of lost wishes and dreams of who I could be if Clinton was my family, or even Obama would be better for me, I love color. I’ll sell myself for a less, I promise I’ll settle.

You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
but if you try sometimes - well you just might find
you get what you need, oh baby

Let me sing the blues for you again today like I sang for you yesterday
My eyes run misty blue for you
The holiday a passed disgrace I saved no face my eyes stay misty blue for you
An outcast jew singing outcast blues, my mother sang them before me. I want to sing misty blue for you this season.

Freshly showered I emerge to sing the blues for you, to bring you back to where I want to be
I go back in time to rhyme with you, keep my flow to your flow, the glow of my flow keeping rhyme to your rhythm.
You go Charley Brown; come back to hear me sing misty blues

Your eyes shine misty in return I see beyond your armor, sing misty with me
Come in, stay a spell, let me sing misty blue for you.
I put a spell on you
I’m a give you some real life southern comfort, a few pecans, flow the red river stills your mind without forgetting the questions,
I falter, our laughter fills volumes of silent banter, I stand before you, my sensibility turning chill while I wait for the lantern of my soul to light this space
Make this day holy, my life skips an Eartha Kitt beat
my mind feels my heart sing for rain is misty blue I’m sensing changes maybe I’ll wait for you, what if I don’t know all I claim to what about you do you play misty blue and know more than I know.
Inky blue, dusk settles a cool blanket on the sky glimmers of silver clouds shimmer remain
Do you see the same inky sky I see when I see what you see when I look for you to see if you’re looking where I’mmm looking for you, I want a raspberry sky to roll its toll onto golden unplowed fields of ripe green wheat
Common Daddy let the good times roll
Common Daddy let me fill your soul
Common Daddy don’t you be late I think I may have a date with fate
I’ve got this date for old time’s sake, just let me fill your plate
Let the good times roll for old times, for old soul’s sake
Sing me those old time blues give me a taste of those old soul blues
A blue eyed soul girl singing the old soul blues for you Daddy

Singing Billies blues

In tribute to Anne D'Hanconcourt by Valery Oisteanu

Remembering Anne D’Harnoncourt
Valery Oisteanu
Poets & Artists Surrealist Society


Poetic coincidence? Unlikely
You were born three days after me, September 7th, 1943
The artsy-Virgos have a special role in art history
We met at the Dal’-Centennial 2004 in St.Petes/Tampa
Her story was a golden one, from MoMA to Dada
To the underworld of Surrealists and Abstract Expressionists
Anne the quintessential collector and guardian of avant-garde
Duchamp spun the magic wheels for “the tall girl”
His ghost is still a host of the Philadelphia Museum of Art
Anne has a rendezvous with Marcel and Alexina -Teeny
In the basement by Étant donnés’ door
Which hides many ethereal white shadows
Brancusi waves his hat: “Welcome to the Avant-Gods!”
CŽzanne paints a peach inside a giant peach
Dal’ brings his soft piano as a present
Dal’-spectrum shines as a halo above her head
Alfred Stieglitz and John Cage create Silence for you
Frank Gehry running with drawing to catch you
The vision of an architectural expansion of PMA
Frida Kahlo and Lee Miller salute you
For breaking cracks in the gender-ceiling
Bravely educating Philadelphians
Without breaking a sweat
Exiting quietly, suddenly, June 1st, ‘08
New summer moon is broken
We pray for you Anne d’Harnoncourt,
The Saint of artists and a Captain of art.


Valery Oisteanu: zendadanyc@earthlink.net
Copyright © 2008 (Valery Oisteanu).
Journal of Surrealism and the Americas 2:2 (2008), 253

Practicing the blues for you

check me getting blue to write for you

trying to figure it out but can't

my first try at tanka

I went on the internet to read about tankas and then tried my hand at it. Tell me tanka readers, does this make it?

Trees Love Me Tanka

I'm warm in here
Out there it's
20 degrees
the trees
are confused

They ask me
If they should
bud or go bare
they're aware
yesterday

Was 50 degrees
Today it’s snowing
My heart is
Virulent
Like the weather

REWRITTEN  

I'm warm in here 

Out there it's 20 degrees

the trees are confused

They ask me

if they should bud or go bare

They're aware yesterday 

Was 50 degrees

Today I'm clueless

My heart is virulent 

Like the weather

About this GCast for your convenience

I'm moving it again - it's gotten waylaid again.
A friend of mine from way back recently wrote to me, I love your blog & I love your poem Tupelo Honey, but why is it, time after time after hearing it read once completely, then I have to hear it again, the same thing all over again.
Dear Reader, for your convenience, here it is the GCast player moved up so you can manipulate the dial. If you click on the icon you can choose which poem to hear. The dial is easily accessible to turn the GCast off if your preference is to browse in quiet. I need to sing my new shit blue scores to you I have more blues for you, these tunes are here on GCast are so familiar to you now.
I promise to record some of my latest loves for you, my latest offspring sings the blues to you.
Peace out brothers & sisters. We're supposed to check out one mic lounge in the hood tonight and hey I & I may dig it! Shout out once in a while they let the dogs out. Ya' neva' do know.

Blog Postings & More

I don't want you all to think I'm not writing, I am. I'm just slow to posting (forgive the pun) write now. Thoughts come and go, my life comes and goes, take care & hope to see you there. (hey Coyote, did you steal that line from me or I from you) I have it in a previous post, 15 Minutes of Fame.
I've written 2 more blues poems that I'm still thinking about. I promised myself to write a series & to sing a few lines when I read. This is very difficult as my Dad was a musician (indeed his entire family were musicians) & Dad always told me I'm tone deaf but DubbleX has me convinced I'm far from it. DubbleX pointed out I always recognize a sour note!
I'm also considering removing my gcast player from way back where it is on the beginning of my blog and putting it in a new entry up front where it's more accessible. This way people who have already listened can turn it on & off more easily instead of searching for it. Really at this point, there's so many writings on my blog that friends of mine have commented that they keep trying to keep up with my writing but there's too much there. I could just recycle everything.
Let me tell you what's going on. It's 27 degrees out and I'm trying to force myself to go to the Post Office & pick up a few things, but I haven't left the house since Sunday last. Am I crazy? I never denied it.
Artistically, I have been producing poetry but neglecting my novel and I'm up to page 183. Also the CEO of Augustus asked me to submit another short story for Lipstick Diaries II but I haven't gotten around to it yet. I am also supposed to put together a poetry manuscript for him plus I have a childrens' story and my artist needs to give me the drawings or we may lose this deal. Hear that Heather Levy? I also am helping Bernard Alain with The Cartier Street Review. In addition, Roxanne Hoffman from Poets Wear Prada Press offered DubbleX & I a chapbook deal which I am more inclined to work on right now & get together than the full length book of poetry.
The other thing I always do is remember others. When I get requests for submissions I look them over and pass them on to people that they seem appropriate for. I also started the fan club for Ira Lightman, and yikes, how it's grown. Get the point? I like sharing. That's what makes life worthwhile. On that note I encourage you to check out Renee Dwyer's blog, Pocketing the Anvil.

COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS

Over the last three years,
three women tried to steal my sperm
one was true, she really loved me
she wanted to birth my baby,
I agreed cause I loved her

The other two said
they were on the pill
They just lied
I’m tellin’ you this
cause I know you’re concerned
you’re my very best friend
and I have to get it off my chest

And I’ll tell you right now:
I forbid you to put this in a poem,
I have dominant genes
for some recessive disease,
that although I don’t have it
my children will

Almost all the men in my family
are blinded by this malady
It’s a plague that eats away their sight
It starts in mid to late thirties
they’re stoned blind by fifty

So when Renee, the love of my life
says she wants to have my babies
I had a feeling I never had before:
that overwhelming primal urge
to shoot my sperm within her loins

and watch it swell into a baby
but when we tried
the seed failed to fertilize
And I discovered I was sterile

GOD HELP ME, I WAS DESPONDENT
EITHER WAY, I COULDN’T WIN GENETICALLY

Now I’m brokenhearted
Renee I loved and would’ve married
But she returned to her former lover
and implored him
to seed her female garden

Since then Renee begged me
to remain her friend
and I did because I
didn’t want her to think
I wasn’t man enough to do that
And to this day
I still love her

Now, I’ve got three to take her place
But don’t worry,
Let me set your mind at ease
I can’t be tricked into
being a blind progenitor
and I mean that both ways

I know I should be grateful
But none of them excite me
And although it’s satisfying,
I’m very lonely
for the woman of my dreams

I Sing The Blues For You Today

I want to do poetry like Billy Holiday singing the blues
I want to do poetry like Ella Fitzgerald
I want to be me singing my holiday blues
Billie’s songs are poetry so fine it makes me think I’m her doing rhyme
Thoughts about Billie make me go off line, hook line & sinker, she puts me back in time
I sing to my lover, I want to make your poetry mine because you spout rhymes
Observing my life become an unending grocery list of things to get done
Your life or mine, yours is on my mind - the list of to dos keeps growing exponentially
Number 1, try out a mattress, 2, buy it, 3, buy new locks to keep someone out number 4, find someone to install it, make 10 million calls & keep writing lists. What did you say? How many sessions, any lessons in storage? Will the Divine power of intervention help?
I don’t want to bore you with the details and derail you from my song.
Damn, wonder if I’ll ever see Willa Dean again– oh man, you know the women I mean
Kept her head wrapped up like an African Queen with her creamy coffee looking self.
Willa said the secret to good potato salad is to go heavy on the mayo
Willa Dean days, they’re all in a haze now. I was so high back then.
The memory lingers, listening & watching while she told stories. She’d whisper, her voice barely a breeze, tell me about her lovers, say, “I’m gonna get me some.” … I’d get confused & asked did she mean her husband or lover. Willa’d have dinner waiting when her husband got tired of cab driving & came home to rest. She’d show me wilted lettuce and bring it back to life telling me about her lovers, drugs, & children while making potato salad. I thought she’s a woman of many talents, a stoned cold junkie and a working mom combined
The nose that knows, her preference was coke, good moist coke at a good right price too on the upper - upper west side in Washington Heights, 162nd street to be exact
Willa was friends with a famous New York jazzman and his wife, a New York City teacher. Willa had class & style combined; she took me to dress models at the Ritz one time. Got paid for it too. It was such a pleasure to do. I even got a pair of designer gloves out of it.
People accepted Willa everywhere we went –
We were at jazzman’s apartment, small tight crowded living room upper west side 90’s.
Willa’s friend sat across from me staring at my big breasts. I can see how tight your muscles are.
Let me massage you she said aggressively hurting me so bad physically we had an argument instead.
Passing through hundreds of lives so many colors
Let me take you back to what we share - strivings for love – wanting to go somewhere - wanting to discover who we really are ~ see ourselves through the eyes of others and – finally see who we really are.
extend this power to the umpteenth degree. We still wonder who they think we are ~
uncover recover to turn to return to who we want to be
Dreams are reality - stop thinking, dreams are the color of my true love’s hair
Beyond the color of my true love’s hair, his dreads caress my bare hands
A whole-years grocery list pressed into a foggy mist of autumn red
turns bright chartreuse before bleakly the list dissolves before my eyes
True colors make my heart sneeze amidst a perpetual mist of violet-blues
a dream more real than a memory

The Furrier and Me

Tuesday I wore that small and pretty feathered hat
Kathy and later Judy asked, where did you
buy that hat? It was oblong, covering only
the top of my head in a thick four inch band
that curved cylindrically down to my ears

Rightly it seemed they should've asked, when
did you buy that hat, because it was nearly twenty
years ago and although I knew very clearly where
I had bought it, I didn't tell them. That store doesn't
even exist today, and I'm sure the old man
who sold it to me is no longer alive anymore
... I thought about all this and never said it

The old man must've been in his seventies, back then
Tall and slender, bent by time and hunched
he made an impression on me and helped
me realize seventy year old men
are as lecherous as young ones.

It was a small furrier shop on 27th Street
near Broadway in the New York furrier's district
The store looked deceptively small from the outside
with a plate glass window through which
I stared at the display of beautiful, furry things
inside that I wanted, such as big, red bushy
fox fur ear muffs so I rang the bell
resting near the lock on the iron gate

He buzzed me in and came out
of a metal cage to greet me
Over his left shoulder the view opened
to show a space - big, wide open, and deep
Everything fur you could imagine
coats, jackets, stoles, of all sizes
shapes and colors, and he told me how

now-a-days he sold some new furs
not so many as years gone by, now he
traded old for new, sold used and antique
He did a booming storage business

He asked how he could help me and when I
said I came in for the bushy red ear muffs,
he offered them for cheap or free if I
would only let him touch me, so I bought
a small ratty old sable stole for 15 dollars and paid
10 dollars more for the ear muffs and at that moment

I spied that golden auburn feathered cap
and put it on and it was mine
It fit so well, styled for another age
but looked as though it were made for me
which even the old man could see
He said you can have that for 10 dollars more
So I took that hat with me and have
worn it specially several times a year

That hat is the bargain of my lifetime
I'll use it, re-use it till one of us goes off -
I thought about that shop often but never
went inside again although I wanted to
and even passed by occasionally
but still I never did go in again
Now he's dead so long ago
I've lost my chance to ever get those
marvelous irreplaceable
bargains I'm sure I'll never see again

Now I'm sorry I didn't go back, take a
chance to see that crazy old coot again,
to bargain with him, put him in his place
... I know I didn't answer your question
- So in case you're still wondering -
... I never - ever - let him touch me

philosophical meanderings

Psychological warfare inside my head
Yeah I heard it before
Been there before - done that Mary Lou says I’m not interested
Sorry to admit I am, I’m not you I do my shit a different way
Interested or not what difference does it make if you brag to me you been down this road before and it didn’t get you anywhere

My option or yours
This road - that one - you have your choice I'll make mine
One road or another - not as much overhead as you suppose
You run a risk here or there
That fork in the road I finally get it’s not so much about you or what I do, in the end it’s about the struggle the good fight the light at the end of the tunnel

Don’t fuck with my feelings
I didn’t commit murder
I’m not meandering about your tender feelings

People keep telling me retirement is bliss
I’m thinking it’s same-o - same-o – day-to-day shit - can I get a witness - it's just different this shit than the before the day before this shit -
See! a new philosophy
Living means having problems

15 Minutes of Fame

A moment opens to eternity

Fastidious & attached to passing moments
I live in Warhol days
An open heart mends wounds
Are you for or against them?
What’s your political game?
Everyone's got his15-minutes of fame
Are you on their side or mine?
Is it them or is it us
Is there an us anymore
Who is us anymore anyway
Anywhere I’m supposed to know?
Did you know …
My headache keeps me awake to cover the worldwide news
An open wound
Nightly sound of the evening news
A bleeding ulcer seeking to be healed
Closer to home news too,
All news is bad news
Except the rescued puppy thrown in to control you
A news-forecast makes everything worse –
Ignore the news a week or two
Say your regards to Pluto
Ignore my bleak forecast of doom
All of us are doomed
As we all are doomed anyway
The more you do - the more gets done
When you stop doing there’s no more to get done
Another open wound
Always the dream remains of
Another go-round
Take care
Hope …
To see you there
If & when there is another go-round

GLIMMERS OF RAIN

A rainy evening, darkness dropping
like a black and heavy velvet curtain
on a theatre stage. Scents of mildew
fill the air. Seated safely behind
a glass pane window sipping coffee

Evening settling, rain changing
from a thick wet sheet
to a soft and fragrant mist
Green, lush rolling hills
wet and soft, magical

Bright and dark all at once
Leaves soaked and matted, rotting on
the red earthen floor, dead limbs mixed
with living. A mirror image of reality
Woods, wet and musty with life

From still reflected sun shining
through the incandescent veneer of rain
Diamonds glimmering
making brown earth red
and dead leaves gold

Dead and living, combined reflections of reality
Compare life to sitting watching woods
its smell so sweet, unsurpassed
Followed by a taste of bitter
Having both to share

Does anyone know what I'm talking about?

I need to be needed. The more you need me the more I need you. It’s how we got to be from the start.
Let me help you she said, it’s so hard on you. I can relieve you from your pain. I need you to need me.
Why I can’t say.
I can’t help being me.
Is it because on some deeper lever you are the more attentive father I longed for and for you I represent the good mom you desire with parts of the bad & crazy mom you had. This time Mom meets your needs.
It’s not so simply absurd as that our subconscious feeds layer upon layer worse than the onion that makes your eyes smart.
Your need for me makes me see, makes me need you more the more you need me. Your need fills up my space my energy. Your need feeds my need.
You explain it to me then, I know you know as much as I know.
Your need for me provides solace and grace in a place I never saw before with glimpses of insanity mixed with lust say trust me I want to hear
Your need for me provides a human express train ride to & from sanity & hell I can be manipulated to grow, I need you to watch with me while flowers grow
I need you to affirm my sanity
I need you because stars set and rise above your head
Not like a god but because you need me I need you
It’s not a space or a place it’s a space inside myself where
If I only let myself when you need me loneliness abates

Go ahead – now say it!
Put that confessional shit to rest and get on with the list of to do’s
so many things to do I can’t rest
gotta keep doing till the doing gets done

I wont shan’t cant let you get away that fast – true there’s hospitals or a prison forms within me when you’re there I’m there when you need me

I’ll rest a minute then save the rest of the world, maybe the universe – I’m a hero

A child’s glory restored in the wilderness ahead about reminiscence never had

mind body medicine

Two years ago this coming January, I participated in a conference for mind body medicine training in New Orleans to help with the healing & rebuilding of New Orleans. All monies earned from the conference went to help with rebuilding. The leader of our group of 10 women called me "co-facilitator" because of my skills in helping the group progress. This poem was the result of my urging and was one of the rituals we used in ending our group besides a very big party where all the groups came together to celebrate the night before we left.

OUR POEM

I am a woman of heart, of mind
A woman with desire
Unafraid of secrets

I am a woman of inner wisdom and knowing
I see the light in pain

I am a woman full of love
A woman of color and vitality

I am a woman who will be this woman
As long as I am a woman

I am a woman who does
not let fear hold me back

I am a woman brimming with possibility
Greater than I know

I am a woman of wholeness and joy

I am a woman to be honored

I am you

I am the earth, the moon, the stars
Gaia, Stella and Luna

By Toni, Joy, Tracee, Amy, Shawna,
Denise, Marin, Susan, Carolyn, Rita & Sandra

Changes

A year ago I wouldn't have believed it if someone told me what I'd be doing now. Time keeps passing whether you stay where you are or keep moving. I had a general 5 year plan that I'd been faithfully following and for some part that stayed in place. The part that stayed in place included keeping up my retirement annuity and leaving my job. I didn't plan on the following things:
loving DubbleX & finding out he's crazy & staying with him
leaving my husband in spite of loving him
plus having other reasons to leave my husband & preferring not to be with him
adopting out Mocha, a rescued Siamese I'd had 5 years
Keeping 2 of Starr's babies
Losing 40 pounds without trying to & joining a gym
Spending $40,000 of my retirement money on various things and spending more money to pay off old debts
Living on my pension
Losing half of our combined savings from our marriage because of the economy & being more poor than I've been in years
being this active on facebook
keeping up blogs for 2

Wow!

A MARRIAGE OF SORTS

He lives with his x wife and he hasn’t got a life
He’s lonely, he’s hurt, on the edge of despair
waiting for love on the brink of nowhere
his x wife sleeps in the room next to his
she’s a survivor, a mother, his x lover, his cover

They lived apart for over ten years
Symbiosis renewed through dependency and fear
He’s scared she’ll die from the
breast cancer she survived
So he suffers her abuse, pays all the bills,

And claims he’s very fond of her
She eats his guilt like a gourmet queen
And she don’t think she’s being mean
He’s promised he’ll never leave her
between a stone and a hard rock

They are their parents reborn,
drowning in self defeating,
narcissistic attitudes
Their daughter left home a long time ago
gave up waiting for the promised abode

when mom moved in to dad’s home
claiming she wasn’t staying too long
It’s a marriage of sorts, you would agree
In spite of their self imposed celibacy
existing in the wastelands of mediocrity

Nourished by chronic dissatisfaction and
occasional knock down, drag out fights
where they they put each other down
But he still craves companionship,
a friend to share things with

Someone to reciprocate
Poor man’s worried it’s just too late
He tells me he’s lonely, he’s blue
he doesn’t know what he should do
He’s the man without a life who lives

With the woman who’s now his x wife
And his life collects nothing but strife
Disaster breathes down his neck
like spastic storm creating wreck
He’s imprisoned by guilt tying him
to obligations of household drudgery

Imprisoned by fear about being alone
he wants someone to hold, to put his arms around
Someone to see a movie and eat dinner with ...
And that’s not all, ... he told me to ask you
Are there any takers here for my friend
the man who hasn’t got a life?
Or better yet, just take his x-wife!

ALIEN PLANET OF LESBIAN LOVERS

SHE lived under the delusion that SHE was the Queened Princess of an Alien Planet of Lesbian Lovers. All the rules SHE lived by and all her behavioral responses provided evidence of this. Much of my life centered around helping her live out this fantasy, painful as it was to me. Besides, my Catholic guilt forced me to accept the proposition that sacrifice nourishes and purifies our soul.
Still, I was not so locked in to my servitude that all other devotions were excluded. I met Sue May as I was attempting to crawl from the claws of the newly crowned Queen from the Planet of Lesbian Lovers. But I kept losing energy in my battle to escape. When I came upon a new route, the Queen would crack her whip, blocking me. I could not break through.
I was lost in the spheres locked between fear, time, and oblivion when I met Sue May on the F train. I was carrying my sports jacket, an attache case and a shopping bag, while balancing a coke in one hand and my shades in the other. I sat down next to Sue May, also known as, The Speaker From The House of Discreet Charm, and proceeded to reorganize myself. My jacket slipped from my hands and I gripped it tightly to prevent its fall. As I grabbed it to crush it closer, I heard a highly toned, cultured voice, "exx, exxcuse me."
I turned and looked her in the eye, "God," I exclaimed, catching sight of my hand clutching her knee in my peripheral vision. "Sorry, I thought that was my jacket." SHE smiled the way Speakers from that House do, completely disarming me, compelling me to do her will. So I offered her an early dinner as SHE was wont to do.
Sue Mai thought SHE was Speaker of the House of Representatives from a small mid-western state where manners meant everything. The Speakers from this house pretended to live in a time when discreet words and charm, and all behavioral nuances were aimed at serving the vast quantities of man's needs.
YES! But behind that sweetly beckoning smiling face, and in perfect rhythm, was the firm grasp of her delicate hand. It was hard to see that Sue Mai possessed the same determined sharp focusing of energy as the Queened Princess. And I realize now, both were bent on making the world, and especially me, think of nothing else, but meeting their needs.At the time I never realized this. I don't mean that the thought never entered my mind that I was allowing them to control me.
But of course now in retrospect, I realize that I have realized this many times. But then, I was just so much Under the Influence. I have always lived Under the Influence. It's that way because I have always loved women, holding them in the highest regard. And I kept searching for the one for me. Not just the one for me, you understand, but the one who would save me from the Queened Princess and serve my needs.
Now I had the Newly Crowned, Queen Princess from the Alien Planet of Lesbian lovers in conflict with Sweet Sue May, Speaker from the House on Discreet Charms befitting maidens from places like Kentucy and Tennessee. Sad to say, they couldn't get along at all.There was just too much conflict of interest. Both were invested in controlling my subconscious.
For the Lesbian Queen I preformed sacrifice upon sacrifice, submitting to her will, making her wish my command. I lived under her delusion that this would provide peace to her Alien Planet of Lesbian Lovers and to me.
Meanwhile my sweet and tame Sue May exerted her control by doling out her loving commands, their sole purpose to provide her pleasure. I devotedly applied myself to make her every wish my command.
All for naught. Between the two, there was no respite. The Queen and The Speaker hated each other. But the truth was, that didn't matter. What did matter was, that ultimately, between the two, I was left with no energy to serve myself.

so much to do

I've been thinking, there's tons of writing on my computer, some for years that I've never shared. I'd like to post some of that stuff too and will begin tonight with one piece.

MORE ON JESUS ND BEING JEWISH

Am I proud to be jewish -
I am and I’m not,
I don’t know I guess

I’m proud of being jewish
because being jewish means
to be educated & literary
in certain circles,
you know what I mean
I know they had tough jews
my father sat on the cusp of that realm
on the outskirts of the jewish mafia

nd ... I suppose...I’m as liberated -
nd as free as one would want to be
or can imagine to be in this society
or any other, again, I suppose
But you asked me
Am I proud to be a jew

I am but when people make disparaging remarks
such as jews are cheap
or you killed jesus
jesus please forgive me;
I wasn’t born yet to suffer for ur sins

so I ask you; if jesus died for ur sins
then forgive me please
and if he died for mine
forgive me again please
but remember jesus is my forefather
and I do follow his path
being an upstart and all
runs in my family
saying what I mean, and doing what I say -
follows jesus also and is why he died for our sins
Isn’t it?

Jesus was an upstart and so am I
our big and honest mouths get us in trouble
So much time wasted arguing & fussing
when we’re all visitors here of our own demise.

is the world going crazy or is it me

If you don’t stop asking so many questions
I could begin to think you’re a cop
I can’t think up the answers that fast,
Are you the prosecution or what
Do you want answers to your questions
Stop looking into my eyes so deep
What are you trying to see
I’m trying to see the I in you
It may be the same as the I in I
Can’t you see I’m trying to bring something to fruition
And it only takes some more preparation
I’m searching for direction
It’s making a huge impression on me
How many decisions did you say I have to make
No, I’m a grown woman I don’t need permission
I don’t care about your trepidation
I’m searching for liberation
Haven’t found it anywhere
It’s not as clear as it used to be
I thought I was so aware
It isn’t always fair either
Too many discussions
Deliberations on the same old themes
Wars & losses, poverty and gasoline prices
Dresses & designers, writers & artists
Vacations & lives, returning home again
Our time and space is limited,
We’re here on this earth to enjoy life do
What we can, our minds so full of clutter
the glimmer the shimmer outside
draws in to the glow
mostly it’s all show
sometimes we can’t see what’s right in front of us
I couldn’t see that book that’s clearly right
There on the bookshelf where you left it before
after we looked and looked;
neither of us could see that book right there on the shelf
right there on the shelf
looked once then twice we saw nothing
Looking through the glass pane window
Should I should go in or wait out here
Alone in the rain of my life
The drops glistening on my skin
Should I join the crowd inside
Watching diamonds in the rough
Watching is never enough
I’ma go rearrange the universe
give me a moment or two

A Freudian Slip ...

Do you suppose - it’s an accidentally on purpose mistake - a Freudian slip? Do you want to throw rocks or count sins, and then who’s will you count first, yours or mine?
Inadvertently 5 years of saved emails were erased. I can’t understand how these things happen in our cyber world lives. I use a convenient excuse. It happened as a side effect from my most recent software upgrade. These upgrades appear while I’m on the computer no matter what I’m doing. Soft grade available here for your computer. Click here for more information or to upgrade now - I’m instructed.
As the result of my last upgrade, my computer desktop divides itself into pretty little pixilated boxes, slowly disappearing as I click on various parts of a document, website or photos, so I can finally get my desktop back. You see how far this has progressed that the computer screen has become my virtual desktop and is where I store everything. As I click on the pixilated boxes, my document slowly appears like magic out of nowhere.
Now do you think it’s inadvertently or purposefully that I’ve deleted emails stretching back over 5 years. They have sublimely and subliminally disappeared forever, gone in a millimeter flash of one second, 5 years of stored memories. In my universe my mails have disappeared from society’s grip.
I want the solace of a moment of silence, a reprieve from the stampede of your judgments stalling my way. Do you think that’s why I tossed them coincidentally, transcendentally removing the spirit of lost words to whence they come?
Yo, it’s rough on a sister out here. My neighbor says to me as I pass her by, “Nice to see you. People don’t make their judgments of important life events on temporary situations.”
“Good to see you too,” I said. “I’m so glad it’s an existential society.”
“What?” she said, mouth agape.
“You know,” I said, “we have the power to recreate ourselves continuously.”
“Oh," she said, I don’t get it, your life is so unreal to me, like a story.”
“I know, I said, “I’m so blessed to be living it.”
“People were different back in my day,” she said authoritatively.
“So glad to have entertained you,” I said making my way back into my lonely apartment hiding space.
I am back to my original thesis; do you think I deleted 5 years of emails accidentally on purpose? I feel like I’ve erased 5 years of my prior life. And really, don’t tell me. Is it that easy? Don’t be offended now when you say to me don’t you remember and I tell you I no longer remember some long forgotten email I’d previously valued which is now destroyed and only exists in some alternate cyber universe.

LET ME INVADE YOU

People grope at the shaman in me
My eyes mirror yours
I interpret your feelings into words
Words you can’t say emerge from me
Give me your hand to make the pain go away
Don’t get scared when you see what I do
Mostly I put me in your shoes
Your feelings resonate and jive with me
I absorb & neutralize your negativity
Filtered by a pure white light to glimpse the other side of a long winding tunnel
I seek out the gory of your story like a vampire devouring blood
Those in need find me
I’m there for the taking
I know your story instinctively
You pretend you’re hunky dory but I see you
Compulsively grasp your inner need
It’s all transitory anyway
Let me provide shelter from the storm
Peace, freedom from anxiety
Let me invade your dreams, your psyche
Relieve you from burning sensations, the flame inside
I can heal you … invade the space inside you ~ your solitude,
Heal your inner glow your flow
Make you drowsy, thirsty for my spell
You’ll be healed by my garden of secrets if you let me touch you
I will heal your wounds, the sound as
My energy courses through your veins
the holiness of the moment we embrace
Harmony fills the empty space
Replaces your resistance
Let me heal you with my inner light
Nuture your might to get it right
I can’t resist your grasp, your pull
I will help you…

SPOT OF BLEACH

This dress is older than my son
5 years older, to be exact.
I bought it from the Indian shop
down by Columbia University,
made of light cotton muslin
nicely fitted about my waist
a bright fuchsia, opaque
my body outlined in the sun
falling gracefully from my hips,
down my big legs.

A spot of bleach fell on that dress today
leaving a white spot in its fuchsia wake
That dress reminds me of Sharon
who had more than I ever had
or ever needed, or could even dream existed
And I had been around, she less than me
But she was more widely traveled
in more fortunate circles than me

Still, I thought she was my friend
even when she said, “I can’t help it,
I’m jealous of you in that dress!”
“Why?” I said, “You have so much more
than I could ever hope for or dream of ...”

“It doesn’t make sense,” she responded,
“Somehow, you look prettier than I,
even though you’re not as slim,
as tall, as Anglo,
as cultured, as educated as I
I can’t figure out
why you look prettier than I”

Sharon, whose tarot cards I read,
two dark knights appearing ahead
one reversed, whose pursuits
I told her to reject

Sharon, whose need for company I met
at 3 a.m. while my husband coughed
bitterly in the room next to mine
when she refused to go home

Sharon, who told her tales of woe
about her latest love, her foes,
her rape when she left N.Y. for Florida
and returned to seek my solace
I thought she was my friend.

A spot of bleach fell on this dress today
Still I don’t wish to let it go
Perhaps a crocheted flower
will cover that bleached out spot
I could just throw that old dress out
I wish I could my memories
that cling like the smell of death

And I wonder if that’s how long
it takes to let go
Why even when we begin anew
the old never lets go ...
Miles of old lives travel within
our thin, threadbared own

I DONT' GET IT

If one was well enough to do everything that one needed to do to get the relief that one needed, then one wouldn’t need the help that one was attempting to get in the first place, would he?
Life is a Catch 22 of the universe.
He said, “I don’t understand why you keep on helping him.”
“I want to,” I said, “It’s a feeling I have to want to. What difference does it make to you?”
Meanwhile we waste time on bullshit. Suddenly it hits me how controlled our lives are. What served as warnings years ago has now come into play. We ignored the critics of our forefathers back in the day.
We’re tracked by GPS. Our cell phones and our credit cards are tracked. Their usage tallied and compiled daily. We’re forced to pay more than our share of taxes while the Masonry lead our government, their symbols lurking everywhere. Taxes were never meant for the small working class man like you and me, yet we pay our taxes every day, day after day.
Some refuse to see the small insidious ways we’re controlled by society and our jobs our families, our conscience which finally takes their place.
Now even Facebook and MySpace take charge and overwhelm me with enough rules to spin my head. Either I add too many or too little friends. They have trouble deciding. I’d think that adding friends would be a boon but Facebook and MySpace employees become dictators in another virtual reality.
It becomes more and more difficult to understand the world I’m living in.

INFATUATION

He’s an infaturation
a soft warm breeze
blowing by and maybe
now my husband blurts out
you want to hear
everything he says

then continues in his
rapid staccato speech
maybe now it all
seems so interesting
an interruption
in the flow of your life

Later, my husband adds
on to his diatribe, and tells
me I will tire of all the new
things my new love confides
which now make me feel so good

After all, he said, you’re tired
of your best friend’s shit
and everyone else’s
I replied, yeah I guess so
So I’ll probably get tired
of him too after 30 years or so

You know what I mean
he says, smirking in
response to my smirk
you’d be happy too
if Billy Collins made
you his protege

Yes I would I said
But I’m not Billy Collins

TWO MINDS, ONE HEART by Joy & DubbleX

I don’t have my own mind I said
Whaddaya’ mean he asked
You inhabit my mind I said
That’s a really good line he said

You inhabit my mind
All the time Joy thought up this line
Joy thought up this line so I typed it in
This computer of mine

It’s not just a line I said
You inhabit the deeper regions inside my head
How do you say that word, hypothalamus
I’ll look it up in the dictionary

My thoughts of you are extraordinary
Because you’re extra-more than ordinary
I want to lick you like a strawberry
A love like this longs for poetry

Our love breaks the laws of humanity
Humility and sanity creating a whole
New meaning for the word boundaries
As we dance through our life in poetry

Your life is my idea I say
I show him my tits in play & say
This is performance poetry at its best
I’m here at your behest
This is only the beginning test
Our lives have become an unfinished poem
Put your worries to rest he replies
We’re here today as mother earth’s guests

Not Everything Fits

We need a small plastic bin to fit all those loose wires in
The loose wires of our lives; how we live in sin
According to the laws of some men
Hey take ten, who made you fit to judge
I’m not in your league and your pledge to change humanity into fixed little square or round pegs doesn't slide with me
You can't make me fit your dimensions
I'm not an item of suspicion to be under investigation for a crime I didn't commit

One size for all, none fit me
I 'm not under your regulations

sorry I'm not part of those guidelines
I know who I am I am who I am I know who I am do you
I’m not bootleg, I'm for real

Don't try to make me fit one of your square or round pegs
I’m not under your domination
Seek another nomination to fit your criteria
Don’t pretend I’m inferior

I'm good, I'm good...

I know who I am who I am who I am

Nearby Sprain Park

view from my window

SPREADING WILDCAT FIRE

Caught on fire ~ sizzle with desire
Cause havoc when I prance cross city streets
Barely escape slaughter as I
suddenly appear out of nowhere,
the sun gleaming in my hair
You barely miss me as I spin past your fender
You smile and wave goodbye
And are glad for I
Suspend the silver gloom around you
Momentarily the
Sunshine of my heart beats
Scarlet on top purple beneath
My true colors
For you I throw in some sunset red
I tattoo myself on you
Winged fairy of time
Imprinted on your soul & memory
I raise your energy
The twitter stops
Nervous laughter
I speak my first line
Only fool falls asunder
Lightening strikes twice
And Jill came tumbling after
Jack fell down
It's beyond the fruits of my labor
She probably meant to save him
Either that or she wanted his crown
I surrender…
I learn to connect to unconnected to survive to live
In ways I couldn’t see how to before this

STORM SEASON

I’m in the rainy season of my life
Each day storm clouds gather
threateningly in the dark sky above

Rainfall in light misting then heavy sheets fall,
Big snowflakes appear midair and disappear on the wet pavement
This is the beginning of my winter of content, I’m not sure yet

The sky simmers red in between imminent storms
then mingles with purple after sundown
Upheaval seems the norm today

Tomorrow brings warm southern winds
leaving again a shimmering steel gray sky
bringing calm in its wake as I begin the winter of my content

Double Helix & Ira Lightman's public art works

Ira Lightman made an initial text art for a sheet of glass, then Dan Civico remade it as a wave of glass, and oak to get the 3D of it all. Dan took Ira's acetate printout, literally cut that up with scissors and made a much LESS symmetrical shape that Ira had then to rework the text into...

Turns out water in a river makes just this double-helix motion. Uncanny.

Photos by Eddie Galvin

Lost Landscape by Nabina Das

Bamboo flutes
That my father had played once
The leather-jacketed book
That had always been a prop on my table
The Borgeets from the Namghar
In sticky caramel noons
My teacher’s voice across the blackboard
That death silenced and
My mother’s rosebushes of hope.
What remains when blue hills weep
Or the red river goes into hiding?
Even the goddess watches from the hilltop
Squirming at slow blood oozing from
Deep coves of deathliness that
Neelachal never for once has known.
What dies when new words are born?
Not the wounds, not the burning shame.
I wonder if I still should paint
Those paddy fields, peacocks and skies
With my brush of golden taint.


I don't usually post other people's stuff but for some reason felt like deviating from that pattern, so I did.
Dunno just did? Click on title will lead to more of Nabina Das' work.

Autumn Breezes

My eyes need to rest on soft colors of nature
Soothed by blues & purple flowers with green leaves
I need to see maple trees turning red,
Queen Anne’s Lace runs rampant round here

I’ve born enough fruit to stay violet for the rest of my life
My eyes need to rest on soft colors of nature
Larkspur, Baby Blue Eyes, Forget-Me-Nots & Borage
Orange Bird of Paradise flanks the entrance to the nearby park

Exhorts me to see
Flowers before the winter breeze steals them away
From my window all I see is the steel gray hardness
A light silver sky glinting so brightly it makes my eyes squint

The farmer from Iowa tells me the cornfields all brown now
Yet inside my head
I long for chartreuse & kelly green Iowa cornfields
Swaying in the breeze
I examine velvet blue bells in the grass as I tread them beneath my feet

I feel a poem coming on like an urge to eat something sweet
A craving to see something beyond these city streets
Simultaneously the sun breaks through the harsh steel gray sky
Beckoning me outside to greet New York City streets
So many flowers spring to life in fall

Fuchsia Shooting Stars along with Saint John’s Wort & Violets
Ah, finally my eyes rest as I fest them upon a flowering dogwood tree
Scarlet tipped leaves & white blossoms
A final hurrah before the white blossoms scatter the ground
Autumns’ last blooms before fall’s first freeze

all photos courtesy of Joy Leftow unless otherwise noted

FLOODLIGHT REFLECTION

Full moon, suspended
Dangling, florescent,
golden ball, I worship thee,
viewed in your entirety
You're like my loves
Scintillating,
while they last.

Wanting a love to endure
not wax and wane like moons
Disillusioned
by desires
for love to burn eternal.

My love and I bathing in
the golden glow of moonbeam
cast upon us like a floodlight
Lie in her circle of luminesque
our bodies still and in repose
naked, arms and legs intertwined.

Motionless bodies captured
in a circle of stagelight
like a fawn caught in flight and
suddenly stilled at twilight

one leg lifted,
ears cocked
lithe body poised
frozen,
like a still life.

Floodlight reflection
cool
hot
white

photo courtesy of DubbleX

TUPELO HONEY

JoAnne is one tough broad,
Italian Irish descent
from the Northeast Bronx
Through sacrifice and dedication
JoAnne is now a nurse at
Presbyterian Medical Center

This is her story
bout a methadone baby
born addicted
on JoAnne’s ward
This boy had tupelo
honey colored skin,
and hazel brown,
almond eyes
Birth mama’s blond and curly haired
A blue eyed Nuyorican
Daddy is a dark skinned African

Mama named the baby Shonequon
The nurses called him “Sweet”
Sweet’s a boarder baby who
lived on the ward
for 2 and a half months
BCW tryin to decide
what to do with that tiny
methadone addicted baby

Now me amiga esta sin ninos
she has no children
e quiere uno mucho
she wants one very badly
so she fell in love with Sweet
talked about him constantly

JoAnne said,
Sweet is cryin all the time
He holds his body rigid
his cryin is so fitful
Kindled by the pain
cause Sweet’s addicted to meth
and this is how he sounds
eeehhhhhh
eeeehhhhhh
eeeehhhhhh
eeehhhhhh

Sweet’s tiny fists
are always clenched
his spindly arms crossing
his scrawny chest
This baby can’t relax!
He’s got a monkey on his back
Sweet’s addicted to meth

The Doctor confides
he wishes he could
keep Sweet tranquilized
cause he’s screamin so fretfully
eeehhhhhh
eeehhhhhh
eeehhhhhh

JoAnne loves to nurture Sweet
She embraces him reverently
comforts him with
the rhythm of her heart
she whispers soothing sounds
cajolingly,

her voice falls like soft waves
caresses tender hollows
of his frail anatomy
her soft warm breath
glides down his velvet neck
Sweet responds with purring sounds

JoAnne’s gentle devotions
linger on
like a mango blossom’s scent
fragrant on a breeze
Sweet watches her giddily
clinging with his
tightly gripped fists

Yesterday Sweet smiled for the
very first time
JoAnne bragged
as though he were her own
Sweet, my boarder baby
is delayed in his response
and yesterday was the
first time
God graced me with his smile

Her eyes rimmed with blurring droplets
Dewdrops silhouette
I love him, she said
I want him to be mine
Even though he’s HIV
and surely won’t survive
I want him to be mine

Child Welfare lets his Mama visit
she hardly came at all
Daddy was there
mostly every day
but he was always drunk

Today they let her come and
take my Sweet away
Honey, JoAnne said,
This baby’s in a lot of pain
he suffers from anxiety

You don’t have to hold him
24 and 7,
but you need to let him
see your face
smiling, talking
into his

Sweet’s Mama answered
I know mucho more than you do
let me tell you somethin’
You don’t know what I been through
All my kids are born on meth
and that’s the way it’s always been


The baby started fussin’ then
his spindly arms
clenched across
his scrawny chest
eeehhhhhh
eeehhhhh
eeehhhhhh

Sweet opened up his eyes
and focused on JoAnne
reaching out his scrawny arms

But Mama reached the baby first
and took him from his crib
Esta te quieto, nino
she said as she rocked him
dispiritedly
to her methadone beat
Esta te quieto, nino

It’s gonna be okay Mama said
Grandma said she’s gonna help,
She’s carin’ for my other five
My oldest girl’s gonna be there too
And like I told ya,
All my kids are born on meth
And that’s the way it’s always been,
but we know how to get by.

Bits & Pieces

Poetry is like life in that it develops its own processes & changes form over time recreating itself over & over again, like we do in our lives. I return to older works and either recycle or recreate using pieces, thus I create a new poem from old work.

I don’t know if it’s the physical mental or emotional anguish that’s worse. I’ve had all 3. Do you know which is worse? Does it matter if I have a preference or choice? Do I get to choose this time?

Ira Lightman's public works

Ira Lightman had a call out (on his facebook page) for people to read his 2 columned poetry. Ira is a surrealist dada-ist artist, his work encompassing these forms & more. He takes on a great many artistic & intellectual projects that become well known in UK & sometimes are spotlighted on the BBC news. You can turn off my auto player at the very bottom of this blog :~) & turn on his player here in this post to hear our voices.

LIVING THE POEM

I observe U creating the drama of your life
Playing people as though they were instruments
Instinctively knowing the keys to their rhythms
Examining each key hypnotically
Studying how each key responds to your touch
Philosophically reporting your observations & thoughts
I get caught up in watching myself watching the I & I
U stroke each note lyrically, responsively
Using that special touch while making me keeper of your rhythms
Your memories and words become stories
Tales to be told about the before and after we became I & I
Like a poem waiting to be written challenging the one already read
I watch U play the blues leaving the U I know behind
I wonder where Ur going and who U will be
You’re playing the game of living
Tuning the world to the rhythms of your life
Each chess move counters another chess move
Am I a pawn in Ur life or someone else’s
I don’t have time to analyze this
U fine-tune the guitar chords exhorting beats from my heart
Ecstasy runs thru my veins with each melody your hands produce
I watch the world thru your eyes
Isn’t that what poets philosophers & all artists do
Translate words images and ideas into thunder
Mimic & play with our world gone asunder
Turn ideas into screenplays, turn words into books
Turn words into hypotheses in our attempts to produce & create
A safer more productive world for humanity

A rose by any other name...

What does a Siamese cat have to do with poetry & a book give away? Read on to find out!
Leave a comment in the blog to be put in a draw for 3 giveaways of my book, A Spot Of Bleach & Other Poems and Prose.
Folks I am not a traditional writer. Strangely enough DubbleX & I had the following conversation this morning.
DubbleX said about Cleo, my cat, "She's an unusual Siamese."
"She is," I agreed. "She's officially called an exotic oriental short hair."
"I don't understand," DubbleX said.
"The reason for that," I explained, "is because The Cat Fanciers' Association hasn't decided that flame point Siamese ought to be included in the designation Siamese. This in spite of the fact that the flame point has all the same points as every other Siamese cat. She has bright blue eyes with a pointy face and flame color shading on her back deepening as she matures. My cat is an outcast among her own kind. Born to a tortoise point Siamese mother bred to a exotic oriental flame point male. Thus flame point Cleo is not called a Siamese. "
"That's funny," DubbleX said.
"Funny how?" I asked.
"The way you tell the story," he says "plus it reminds me of your poetry."
"Explain," I say.
"Well," he says, "You said there are poets out there who criticize your narrative style & the way you write and they don't consider your work poetry."
"That's true," I said. "Because my poetry tells a story, and is not all about the metaphor."
"I like the way you write," DubbleX said. "Your words have an impact, they make me feel & experience things. They make me think too plus I understand them. I don't have to work hard to interpret what you're saying. I like the way each poem tells a story."
"Yes, the impact is what counts. Sometimes though the impact makes people so angry that they hate my work. You don't know how many times people have told me I'm not a poet."
"They're wrong," said DubbleX, "You are a poet. You have your own style with your own rhythm and energy. Not everyone can see. Your poetry combined with your energy reminds me of sitting, listening to the blues."
I thought about this conversation more as the day wore on. I thought about how this related to my entire life, I'm an outcast Jew, an outcast poet, and now I have a cat named Cleo who is an outcast Siamese flame point cat who is called an exotic oriental cat.

Blog Give Away

I woke DubbleX this morning with a Cinnabun paper bag in my outstretched hand. "Pick one," I directed, "it's for our blog give away". DubbleX picked Mr. Bernard Alain's name on a folded sticky note out of the bag.
Mr. Alain is the winner of last weeks blog give away. I will be contacting him directly!
Thanks to all who participated.

Tattoo me

Thought some of you might enjoy seeing my alter ego tattooed on my upper right shoulder. There are many symbols included in this tat. Take some time to examine the symbols. Myke Maldonado (friend & artist) from Dreamland.com & I combined our efforts to design this. It took 4 trips & approximately 12 hours to complete. Click on the photo for a larger pic.

Live & Let Live

I learned in my maturing process that it is the overcoming of obstacles that simultaneously causes me the most pain and pleasure. Sometimes when I’ve done what I feel I’m chosen to do, it causes problems for others around me. We cause disappointment and suffering to our proclaimed friends, our appointed guardians, our children, any of the people we know in our flow of life. Sometimes my words make people squirm. I’ve also discovered life has a flow with friends too. Sometimes there is a flow of everything I know. Various flows happen to me daily. Mostly I see, sometimes I don’t.
It is my nature to jump first and ask questions later. This life long habit has caused me problems but like most humans when I err it is on the side of trying to do the right thing. Very often in my leaps of faith I have helped other people. I’m not bragging about this; it is my nature to be helpful and I’ve always done it. I consider it my inborn talent and strength. It is this nature that made me become a social worker and writer. I accede that under most usual conditions most humans will try to do right thing. Spike Lee’s movie was his device to make us wonder what is the right thing to do?
When I decide I must do something my decision may cause someone near to me pleasure or pain. Likewise any choice I make may cause me pleasure or pain. I don’t make decisions in a vacuum. Neither is any choice going to give me one hundred percent pleasure or one hundred percent pain. So everything must be weighed out like a chore, a balance scale of life when I make choices. Most of all I am a survivor filled with hope and desires for my future.
When I progress, I feel pleasure in becoming unstuck. Think about this. What is the alternative to moving ahead? The answer that strikes me here is death. The primary obstacle to moving ahead is to remain the same with all your sorrows and regrets, or you move ahead with a different set of sorrows and regrets. Life contains all; pleasure, pain and hope. Hope keeps me going. Sometimes it’s not about wrong or write (please forgive the pun, I can’t help it.) and it’s not a matter of sorrows or regrets. Sometimes life is about moving ahead. Sometimes it’s about sorrows and regrets. Sometimes life is for living and not being still. Sometimes I meditate and like to be still. Sometimes I meditate and like to be in motion.
I write of a different type of movement, not a parallel movement but a movement that leaves old things behind to begin anew - using new building blogs (forgive another pun). New can strengthen my spirit when old ideas crumble. Spiritual nourishment is ideal.
Sometimes I meet someone and feel a special pull. I don’t know what the pull means and I must decide how to respond to that pull. I may decide this is meant to be but perhaps this decision is an excuse to move in the direction I want desire or need. Some people inspire, some people relate, some do both. I am still that jumper who is a known chance taker. Many people have told me I’m a blessing in their life. I assume they say this because it’s true. Seers have called me a reborn fallen angel. I strive constantly with my power and the talent I was born with. I’ve nurtured my powers (talents included) with love and dedication. My powers have grown. Making wrong or right choices can build my power too. I must live with my choices and always move forward. I value that place in my life and in your life where we strive towards betterment. It is this common striving and our connections to one another, that make us human and makes life worth living.

Blog Give Away

I've seen other people have giveaways on their blog & every time I've seen it I've thought, ooohhh that is so cool! I decided to do one too. If you sign in to my blog and leave a comment, I will take a scrap of paper - write your name on it, mix them all up & pick one out of the bag. I will then ship this beautiful -still-in-shrink-wrap-brand-new-book- to you. This will happen when there is a sufficient number of people to mix up several slips in a paper bag to keep it fair .

The Beautiful Struggle: Street attitude from South Africa's Townships (Hardcover) by Mlamli Figlan (Foreword), Per Englund (Photographer)

The book sells at Amazon for $22.76 & can be yours for the price of a blog check.

Enjoy!
Much love ~ Joy

Friendship

The world continues to become more anonymous with online networking. I have an entire set of contacts on fb & elsewhere who I will probably never meet in person . Contacts I nurture to promote myself & DubbleX & sometimes other writers too. I give myself credit for this networking because before me DubbleX had never been published. He told me before I worked with him no one else had ever encouraged his writing. I have faith in his writing. I got his first poem published before we actually became a couple. D isn't the kind to bother with submitting or reading things. He works more on the creative instinctive side. Perhaps it is my personality that is better suited to networking combined with creative pursuits. D still insists he is happy to have me submit his things but he's already very busy. This makes my busy life even more busy. I try to manage my time to get everything done that needs doing. You'd be shocked if you knew all the shit I pack in one day without even mentioning daily vacuuming & cat littler cleaning plus all our other daily routines.
This morning when I opened my internet mail there was a letter from a woman who began as an internet contact. She was searching for a cat. I had recently rescued one so I invited her over to see the black and white beauty. At that time, over three years ago, when I met her she was going through a lot. When I took her home with her new cat it seemed like her apartment was in shambles. I worried that she didn't have food or the fortitude to care for an animal. I showed up several times with soup & bread I had made in addition to some cat food.
Surprisingly over the next few weeks my friend's condition improved. My friend, Niambi, began to clean up & throw out the unneeded garbage filling the small space in which she lived. She told me the cat helped her to rearrange the order in her life and that he'd actually guide her in what needed to be done.
Niambi, needless to say, is also an artist. We actually performed together in a show I put together called the The Art Stroll, which takes place up in my neck of the woods. Since Niambi lives in Harlem which is generally included in our area, I was able to include her. Niambi is primarily an actress and singer but she also writes. As proof of this I am including in today's blog the poem I received from her this morning which got me to do what she wanted. I called her immediately. I am sharing it here because it is a good poem & also to show how our lives get so complicated we forget how important keeping in touch is to those around us who care for us & depend on our contact.

GIVE ME SOME CONTACT by Niambi Steele

I just wanna know one thing-- do you ever speak on the telephone anymore
Or has that part of life become too much of a chore
Duly noted is the genius of your epitomes and metaphors
But jesus christ I wanna get back to the used to bes and gone befores
I know that isn't fair to your new found sense of discoveries and recoveries
But have a heart for us old farts that still live in our reveries and miseries
Some of us just want our friends to be a familiarity
Not a new design on a runway like a freaked out fashion week.
I want to be part of your joyous new discoveries
But it’s hard to imagine someone who remains such a mystery.
I've never even been introduced to the new man in your world
But every time I turn around I'm forced to meet him in the words he's learned to twirl.
I'd like to meet him at a gathering meant for more than just you two
I feel so out of place meeting him through you
The world I live in is populated and free
The world you live in seemingly has no place for me...
... and I feel it every time I get electronic, cyber sonic word windfalls
Instead of incoming, purposeful, personal phone calls.

CLITTER-CLATTER OF CITY NOISES

The sounds outside pull me, grate at my insides
My line got lost in the breeze, the sound spread wide
By helicopter blades whirring busily by
The noise becomes louder in my head
Assaulting my senses engorged and fed
I feel the sound right here in bed
It bursts in thru my open window
Along with politics, sex, lies & videotape
Everyone watching everyone creates, mouths all agape
I keep telling you – we’re all in this together son!
Everyone trying to emulate innovate
Be different yet somehow stay the same
Men in hard hats drilling on the rooftop
Facing me, I want them to stop
I run downstairs but there’s nowhere to go
There’s no escaping the sound inside my head
I can’t escape the crazy lady downstairs from me
Mornings I lay on the floor to stretch and hear her talk radio loudly –
Consistently persistently working it’s way up to my head
This same woman had the nerve to come to my apartment and yell
At us on a restful Sunday afternoon watching a quiet movie
Her banging disturbs me;
I was enjoying the movie smoke signals
On the door insistently banging annoyingly cloyingly
Banging me I throw the door open finally
She stands before me talking about noise
I tell her never to darken my doorstep again
She’s another schoolyard bully drunken with power
About an unforeseen abuse
It only happened once
Samoa jumped up & down from couch to ground
DubbleX said Samoa did it once then again & again
Samoa told Daddy it was so much fun
Then Godzilla loudly invaded our space
Once is once too many
My senses are assaulted daily

THAT FLAIR by dubblex & Joy

Room for exploration
want to touch every part of your body
like I was running for president
your body is the nation
want all parts of you to vote
for my sexual sensation
I saw something there
beyond the clothes you wear,
that sexy glare
something there you were unaware
you possessed this flair
wanted to share this brown skin
with your fair short red hair
and matching trim
so fine and fair that short red hair
I had to get to know you better
And I can’t figure out why
Whose ticket do I have to pay
To get to know which play
Comes next in this game
It can’t always be the same
I won’t always be this tame
I can catch this moment of fame

I GOT MAD SKILLZ

I crochet colorful dread caps for my love
Make them perfectly fit to his head
Especially made to hold his dreads
I do macramé write poetry & prose
Became a macramé expert after only one day
I match & coordinate color schemes naturally
stitch my own clothes
make things with my hands

Cuz I got mad skillZ

I throw foods together to make a feast without meaning to
Create a variety of dishes to please your palate
Make U hungry for food & me
Before you know it you’re addicted to me
Cuz I make sex like a whore in or out of bed
Like a sex machine never running out of steam

Cuz I got mad skillZ

I hit you up with words
Words powerful enough to make you feel things you don’t want to feel
My words sting & thrust, make you laugh
My words resonate with you

Cuz I got mad skillZ

Like an alchemist I use words to create something from nothing
When you hear my words you know you exist
You may want to escape the page real fast cuz
I draw reality from dreams & write with new themes
I heal wounds with the power of my words

I can be what ever I want to be
And do what I want to do
I will give you a fresh start in life becuz
I carry diamonds in my heart
Which I share & instill in you

Cuz I got mad skillZ

DECIMATION AT BEST

I expect changes
The sudden flow of colors this coming fall
Not better - not worse, a different perspective. Better or worse…
Let it satisfy humanity to say with jealousy that happiness is our common striving – our goal-
Let it be further said everyone complains
The leaves have turned red - they’re turning orange then gold
Rains come as they’re expected to
The storm whips the leaves off trees with a fast blowing breeze
Winter revisits again the tops of trees without leaves
Leaves disintegrate - turn to dust
A barren world all - about me,
A strange world - mothers have to find new ways to procreate
Men’s sperm count has found a way to degenerate
Yes I know about Charlie Chaplin
Not every man is he
The world has turned to dust
Compared to what it used to be
Our American natives
Our forcefully immigrated slaves
Our citizens descended from prisoners given refuge here – in a brand new land
What do you think those forefathers would say if they saw how we all are
Hostages to gas & electricity
The evening meal destroyed
By addiction to
TV; video games night & day
The simplicity of our lives drowned out by the missile wars
The noise of airplanes high above; the train roars by
Lord - give me peace from the insanity
From wars about religion, crimes against children,
Control of resources on foreign soils
Perpetual invasions
Give me peace from this agony
The world spins out of control
Where are the common goals
The I & I – our wants matter less & less
Generations continue
Mother earth is destroyed
No one loves her anymore
Drowned in hostile fluids created to abuse mankind,
Makes our forests and animals disappear
Her oil removed from her intestines
How long can she suffer this abuse
Will we humans ever be content to leave well enough alone

Sometimes I forget...

Sometimes I forget that it's nice to post things in several places for people to see. I posted my interview with What Makes Poets Tick on our profile with the wikipedia link and am also going to put them here for you to peruse.

RAINY SEASON

I’m in the rainy season of my life
Each day the dark sky above
threatens to storm clouds gather
The rainfall begins as light misting then gets heavy,
big snowflakes fall and disappear on the wet pavement
This is the beginning of my winter of content, I’m not sure yet

The sky simmers red in between imminent storms
then mingles with purple after sundown
Upheaval seems the norm today
while tomorrow brings warm southern winds
leaving again a shimmering steel gray sky
bringing calm in its wake as I begin the winter of my content

15 minute of fame

An open moment to eternity
Fastidious & attached as I am to so many tremendous moments
I live in the day Warhol predicted
An open heart mends wounds
Are you for or against
On their side or mine
Is it them or is it us
Or is there even any us anymore
Who is us anymore anyway
I don’t know
An open wound
A bleeding ulcer seeking to be healed
A headache that covers wide world news
& closer to home news too,
All news is bad news
Except the rescued puppy thrown in to control you
A news forecast makes everything worse –
See what happens if you ignore the news a week or two
Act like you’re on Pluto
Ignore my bleak forecast of doom
All of us doomed as we all are anyway
The more you do - the more gets done
When you stop doing there’s no more to do
Another open wound
Always the dream remains of
Another go-round

What? What you say?

I said to DubbleX & he fully agreed, "when there's nothing left to do I stop doing. I guess that's why I keep going - because I'm caught up in the struggle to maintain a life. If there's no going there's no life."

The History of DubbleX & I

Thing is we met we were at our lowest ebbs. We were both sad about many things. DubbleX had his sad things. I had mine. I’ll tell how we met.
We met at Louder Arts downtown. Honestly – I know this sounds conflicted because I’m a very friendly outgoing person, but it’s difficult to push myself out the door to go read anywhere. I had wanted to go to Louder Arts for so long it was now silly. That’s me – all bottled up in my fears & anxieties. You know writers. Mongo called me & invited me to gay night. I said OK.
Mongo and I met at Au bon Pain. He says, “You’re gonna love it.” I’m skittish, a new venue I’ve never been to before. Hell, I have the bear with me – a teddy bear so I’m safe. We’re seated and this big very tall brown-skinned dude with dreads stands to my left gazing at the seat on which parts of me and my belongings are spread. Being the friendly type I bustle my big ass over a few inches to make room for the big brown dude with dreads. I got my shit together and put it on my lap.
I caught him looking at me.
“Hey,” I said, “I’m Joy.”
“Is it your first time here, Joy?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Mongo took me here tonight. I always wanted to come before but somehow I never got here.” Then I explained the whole gay theme poetry night as Mongo had explained it to me; that you first read a gay poet’s poem and then one of your own.
“Nobody ever talked to me this much here before,” he said.
“Oh…really,” I said.
“Why’s that?” I said, “You shy?”
“A little,” he said his eyes penetrating mine.
“I like your dreads,” I said flirtatiously.
“You do?” he said acting surprised.
"What?" I asked because he was staring at me so strangely.
“No one’s ever said that to me before.”
I was like where’s this dude been if he’s never run into anyone like me.
“They really look sweet. Can I touch them?”
He stared at me for a long time – his eyes holding mine. I felt him in the pit of my belly.
“You didn’t answer,” I said our eyes still holding.
“I …I,” he stammered, “No one’s ever asked me that before.”
“Oh … Really,” I said. I was touched - like - where’s this gem been hidden?
“OK,” I said. “So can I touch them or not because you still haven’t answered me. I’ve always wanted to touch dreads but never had the opportunity.”
“Sure,” he said, “If you wanna.”
“Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want‘a,” I shot back, reaching over to touch his dreads while he bent his head slightly towards me to provide easy access.
I let my hands feel the coolness. I squeezed to feel the springiness. I held several coils in my hand. He looked at me through his dreads. I looked back. I closed my eyes for a moment to feel. I opened them. Dubblex was watching me through the lens of his glasses. I stared back smiling. We kept quiet mostly after the show began.
It was fun. I read one of Mongo’s poems. He gave me a few to choose from. Mongo’s poetry is cool. He has many styles. I read one of Mongo’s then one of mine. What’s most cool the about the Louder Arts thing is the rule. I particularly like it that no one is permitted to take up more time than allowed. I really appreciate that feature and find it very respectful to all the rest of us poets waiting our turns.
Afterwards Mongo, DubbleX and I were chatting. Mongo says he walks to his place from here and it’s not far. DubbleX and I are looking at each other because neither of us has said yet where we live.
I say, “I got a long trip uptown,”
“Probably not as far as me,” he challenged.
“Oh … really,” I said, “Where do you live?”
“Inwood,” he said. “Do you know where that is?”
Mongo laughed because he knows I’m from the Heights.
“I live up there,” I laughed too. “I need to take the #1. What do you take?
“I take the A usually but if you take the #1, I’d rather ride with you.” He said
Mongo and I looked at each other then bear-hugged.
DubbleX & I split Louder Arts & talked the entire walk/ride uptown. I handed him my card. it’s nice to partner up for readings. Sometimes people call, sometimes they don’t. It’s a sometimes world.
DubbleX called me the day after we met. I was out but my man at the time picked up the phone & gave me the message. DubbleX called the second day as well. I was home. He told me very personal things about himself and I immediately responded, “I’m a social worker with a lot of skills, let me help you.”
Don’t ask me to tell you what possessed me to say that. Suffice it to say that helping people is part of my nature & is the reason why I went to get my masters in social work in the first place. I had been doing it my entire life anyway.
I’ve reflected & written tons of poems about my life since before I met DubbleX & how things are now. Somehow it boiled down to me being hostage to my expectations. It’s all mixed up for me. To make a long story short, the two of us decided to take that leap and live & grow together.
DubbleX has managed to be more productive than ever before. He says his hair has never grown this fast before and attributes its fast growth to our relationship as he does his sudden productive artistic growth. Should I argue with genius?
Let me tell you – this has been one hell of a trip for both of us. Things have never been the same with either one of us since that day we met. Mongo says it’s his entire FAULT; he takes CREDIT it for it all!

I rescued a baby pitbull today

Things have been a little rough the last week. Since last Tuesday I have been in terrific pain. I have acid reflux & hiatal hernia plus I've always had a very sensitive stomach. Put that together with eating tainted fruit and see what you come up with. I ate a container of fresh figs and a couple were molded. I threw those out. But you know how it is with fruit, if it's not clean... Yes, I did wash it but mold can travel through it. Because of that I pretty much laid up all week & cried from the pain. Friday I went to the doctor, but she had no clue. She gave me Aciphex which gave me a severe headache. I looked it up online and learned that headache is an allergic reaction to it. Today I saw the specialist who is going to do a colonoscopy and endoscopy at the same time in October. (Yuk) He gave me Prilosec which I tolerate better.
After I finished at the doctor, I picked up DubbleX at his job so we could go to the gym together. We went to the gym, did our workout, then drove home and parked the car in the lot on Tenth Avenue. On the way back to the apartment, we walked through Isham Park where you have to walk up hundreds of stairs. Partway up I heard a rustling in the bushes. I asked DubbleX to stop and hold my bag for me. I couldn't believe what I thought I saw. I went into the bushes and there was this gorgeous pit bull puppy about 3 months old. He was all white with big floppy ears and a long skinny tail. He had several black spots and inside the black spots were orange spots. The puppy was affectionate and sweet. I love pits whose tails & ears are intact. The poor thing seemed hungry in the bushes eating leaves and chewing on sticks, so I decided to let him chew on me instead.
I went and got him. A man stopped to talk to us and gave the baby a can of cat food which he gobbled up. The dog had a small collar and leash on. We walked down to Broadway, stupid me thinking his owner had lost him. He was a good dog and stopped to piddle along the way. The big dude seated in front of the bar rolling his stoogies said some guy walked up to him said "hey you want this dog for free?" and when he said no, the guy continued walking up and down the street asking several other folk if they wanted the dog. When no one took the baby, the guy just took him in the park and left him there.
I began calling dog people I know, but no one wanted the baby. One woman said maybe. She agreed to see the dog. As I walked towards her apartment to meet her, she called me back and said she changed her mind because her landlord wrote her a letter warning her that although he was sorry her dog died she better not get a new one. By that time I was in front of her building and she looked out the window to see the pup. She oohed and ahhed about his beauty while leaning out the window talking to me on the phone.
Some young girl came out of the building with her family. She got very interested in the pitbull & said her cousin was looking for a baby pit, because she already had a grown pit and wanted a companion for her. She called the woman and the woman came down to meet the dog. When the woman saw how beautiful and young the baby was (he sat and wagged his tail while she examined his teeth) she couldn't resist. Denise and I hugged and she told me about her other dog. Luckily for DubbleX and our three cats, Denise decided to take Mr. Gorgeous home after all.

I love to read mysteries...

I just finished two of Carl Hiaasen's books, Nature Girl & Sick Puppy. Hiaasen is a quirky writer and truly understands gifted crazy type people that he writes about. As a professional clinical social worker & a writer, it is very important that the characters have substance and their traits are well developed. His humor is ironic, biting, like the bite of a Labrador puppy. I'm ready to read the rest of his books now. That's usually the way for me; being a completist once I find an author I like. Hiaasen's timing is exquisite as his comic relief. If you want to be entertained & laugh read him. The story follows an independently wealthy guy, Twilly, who happens to drive by a schmuck who is throwing garbage out the window of his huge van. The shmuck is Palmer Stoat, who is a lobbyist. Twilly sets out to teach Palmer a lesson on littering. Whether or not he succeeds is the mystery. The characters are completely believeable - I think I've met a few...
Another author who I highly recommend is Jasper Fforde, Lost In A Good Book & The Well of Lost Plots. The characters escape from books - his humor reminds me of Catch 22. The heroine, Thursday Next, hops from book to book literally, becoming part of the plot of each story she gets into. Thursday is part of an undercover task force aimed at preventing escaped characters from committing crimes. I've already covered too much ground discussing two authors.
The deal is these are two mystery authors who will make you laugh and both have excellent literary skills.

I AM ME I THINK I AM BECOME THE ME I WANT TO BE

I am a woman of great mind & desire blended with creativity
I am a woman who's survived much
And lives with my dreams
I am a blend of us all, although I may not be the part
you hold dearest to yourself
I am your wildest dreams & fantasy
I can be me or you or who you want me to be
I could be you and step inside your shoes too
I’d rather be me inside of me
Then you inside of yourself
I’ll do me & you do you
Then we’ll both do fine for ourselves

FB & what it means to me....

On FB the ichat feature is easily accessible to everyone and automatic to almost every computer user, no matter what platform they're on. I find the level of applications available and the way they are used staggering. The numbers of people using them is staggering. Any person including me can spend days playing & replying to silly applications all day (Although God only knows I'm sure there are many worthwhile causes) plus if you combine this with unlimited chatting, all these applications zap my available time and energy. My personal lifestyle choices combined with my practical side limit my time. Also these features control people; they absorbs more & more of our entire lives...

I would be very disappointed in myself if I determine that today I will invite readers to my blog, write a new piece for my blog (such as this one), and write a new poem plus a few pages in my novel, and beside all this manage to clean up the apartment and shop. I’m not going to be happy with myself if I spent two precious hours chatting when so many other things demand my attention. The thing is - I love it - the chat feature is awesome. But what about the chores we must do. Like I clean cat litter and DubX does laundry. We buy food & clean up etc. Oh & what about the gym. I lost 33 pounds since the new year and how am I to keep up that good work without the weights. There is not enough hours in a day for us to do it all. I do keep trying.

I see FB as a place to promote my work and to allow visitors to see my page and the option to listen to me read poetry on my blog. FB is a place to share a piece of me and my artistry. You can also look at pics where you can see the dread-caps I crocheted for DubX. I should actually post more of them. Perfectly made to fit his head.

The artistry at FB is what counts for me. I want to share with other artists and read their writings or looking at their paintings, whatever it is their artistry demands.

Hey, all those applications? Well they’re in the way of what I'm about professionally. I try to add as few as possible. More over I don't see the buy and sell people as funny - I find it insulting. I dunno - is my sense of humor not all it should be?

As a writer my professionalism demands that I spend time reading. I read novels, sometimes the paper and some mags (Did I say I love National Geographic & subscribe?). The point is a writer reads. I spend a lot of time reading a lot of people all the time. I read Bassey Ipki, she’s drop dead fascinating. Crystal Center Brown, Wanda Phipps, Patricia Smith, Ishle Park- I’m not name dropping – These are wonderful poets/writers. What really impressed me was when the former Poet Laureate of Queens actually looked at & commented on my work. Others I've read are Jack Wiler, Kate Evans, Lanie Rabancos, Robert Brewer, Jay Sax so many.... If you're on my blogroll I have read you. Ask Nancy N who is new.

Sometimes I forget to write people to say I’m reading their stuff & usually try to send a note at least. I also have gone to everyone’s blog who belongs to mine and actually revisited. With 130 people on my blog that alone keeps me busy.

I’m so busy keeping up my blog & joining groups I have no time for adding applications & using them. I need to keep up with my writings of poetry and prose.

The FB applications I find absolutely necessary as a writer are notes, posts & blogging. I’ll chat & answer emails. I like to be more personal. Sometimes I do the offline thing when I'm online so I can get things done. It's hard to get things done if I'm busy texting. The most important thing is we FB users have to find a balance that works for us. That's very important to me along with accomplishing what I set out to do. I take great pride in being able to get things done whether it's for me or someone else.

Accomplishment matters.

No Contest but check Michael Moore preview: Election Guide 2009

I cried last night after I got over the shock of who McCain picked. I cried because I'm still not convinced that there's not some deeper underlying conspiracy theory here. I cried because I'm also still not convinced that Obama will really win. Of course he has my vote.

Yes, I know you've heard it all, but how do you explain it that the one president we had who was Catholic was killed? How do you explain that the Freemason symbol adorns our dollar bills and that every president we've had has been a member.

I cried because I read Michael Moore's Election Guide and saw the truth written there.

The Democrats appear to be professional losers. They are so pathetic at their ability to win elections they even lose when they win! Al Gore won the 2000 election, but for some strange reason, he didn't become the President of the United States. If you are unable as a party to get the landlord to turn over the keys to a house that is yours, what the hell good are you?

Do we all remember our outrage & impotence back then. And Katrina??? How many Katrinas & 9/11's do we have to suffer before we get it.

How many Democrats does it take to lose the most easily winnable election in American history? Not many. Just a few "close advisers" to Barack Obama who tell him a bunch of asinine stuff and he ends up listening to them instead of his own heart. As the party hacks in the past two elections have proven, once they get the candidate's ear, they rest of us might just as well go all van Gogh on ourselves with ours

If Obama is going to listen to his handlers who want to take care of the "Michelle" problem, they're eliminating the charm of his campaign. If he begins to discuss how he is going to deal with the Iran Israel problem with punitive methods, he falls into the trap of agreeing with the scum we're trying to rid ourselves from. Four more years of McCain is four more with GW Bush.

Here's what Obama said: "The danger from Iran is grave, it is real, and my goal will be to eliminate this threat."
and
". . . Let there be no doubt: I will always keep the threat of military action on the table to defend our security and our ally Israel. Sometimes there are no alternatives to confrontation."

Why he would say this is obvious, he's trying to gain supporters from the Republican side. But then why would the Republicans pick an imitation when they can have the real thing.

Hope is all I'm left with; that & the desire to create a better world to leave to our children tomorrow.

Self Publishing - check links to Dan Poynter & Danny O. Snow

These two guys, Dan Poynter & Danny O. Snow, have been running a website and publishing books about self publishing for the longest. If any of you writers out there (and by all indications there are a lot of you) are considering the do's and don'ts of self publishing, these guys have it down to a science. You don't have to buy their book. You can read them online and subscribe to their website for free. They only send their newsletter to subscribers who they have plenty of. Their tip of the month makes sense too, that if you have a book that will be in production during October, November or December, use a 2009 copyright date so it won't look like your book's outdated when January rolls around. As Robert Brewer said in one of his hints, don't bother to self publish at all until you have a decent number of your poems published elsewhere, both online and paper books.
Check these dudes out if you're going the way of many others to self publish...
Holla!....

One thing & another

Probably many of you who are writers are solitary souls at heart. I have met writers who say they must be alone to write. That's not me. I do like to write at my computer like I am doing right now as opposed to scribbling everything down. Back 15 years ago I began to always write on my computer unless I'm on the run and only have a pad & pen. It's fun that my significant other likes to hear my work too - makes it pleasant for us when we're focused on a project since I talk what I write while I write. My ex loves my writing and my present, DX, does too. I guess the point is that writers have a tendency to get hung up writing. With DX & I, we talk poetry to each other that we make up on the spot then we forget to write it down - plus we are so busy taking care of shit - (the crap no one wants to hear about) that sometimes everything else goes to the wayside. You know it's rough when we both get into that isolate ourselves mode. We write and read to each other until we're tired, then we play on facebook, & by then DX is either ready for coffee or a nap. Sad to say he's back to his regular grind at J.O.B. now in addition to really being on his grind art wise. The past half year has been a wonderfully productive time for him.

Mongo came into town last week. The last time Mongo & I saw each other in person was November 5th when Mongo dragged me of to Gay night at Louder Arts. Truth is I love to write & read, yet it's hard to make myself go do it. Any way, Dig this - Mongo brags that he takes responsibility for my whole life change. He dragged me off to Louder Arts where I first met DX. Now dig this - I've pretty much stuck with DX since I met him and DX with me. Mongo takes responsibility for dragging me. I agree - I have had so many changes in my life I can't count them. I've become lighter mentally emotionally and physically. Strangely enough, I have more burdensome & irksome things to take care of simultaneously so I can't tell you how this works that I'm lighter with more problems. You have my word on this. Anyway back then when I met DX, I was my flirtatious self which I can be on occasion when the feeling is aroused in me.
Thank you Mongo - All your fault!!!!!!!!

Soooooo..... Dig it.....
Mongo's back and there's gotta be trouble! Off he drags (bashful us!) to Louder Arts to celebrate our meeting space. Our luck is that DX gets chosen to judge the slam. Roger gives his spiel - you know the deal - you can make up any story you like about why you should be a judge of the slam. DX said he has a Ph.D. in poetry.

Carlos Andres Gomez was there, and he is not only handsome & talented but he is also so unassuming and genuinely nice. Hugged me and meant it - you could tell.
Bonofide Riojas was there and he's so great even when he's drunk. I first met him up here in the hood at a local event here at a Hostos CUNY event.

I saw so many wonderful people - poets all. I saw Eliel who greeted me. Rachel, the host, made me feel very welcome by showing off her gorgeous hair and her multitasking skills. She gives new meaning to the word multitask since she greeted & introduced people as well as took care of her children. Did I say multitask?

You're my new hero Rachel!

Yay Poetry!

Onward writers...
On to my next project...

Morning Schedule:
Interview with Vickie Stringer
D's papers notarized
appt to make with dr heller to check this shit on my lip
work on my play/novel and keep going

life is a trip

Looking forward to seeing mongo and louder arts again at least one more time b4 mongo leaves town
please let me out of this house: let me escape this prison of my making...
we are all prisoners of our own device

Thanks to all for the health wishes regarding our recent escape unscathed in the prius

Survived The Accident

On Tuesday afternoon a city bus ran right into the rear end of my beloved Prius. Although there's a slight dent my rear brake & signal light are intact. Only the outside bottom shield of the rear light is cracked a very little bit. I picked out the plastic and put book tape over the crack so I can use it until it's replaced without it shorting out from any possible rain storm.
Can you imagine we fucking got hit by a New York City Transit Authority Bus and neither of us was hurt. The bus was picking up and discharging passengers on 135th & Riverside and I was in the 3rd lane making a left when the bus swerved out at too fast & at too much of an angle. He just smacked my beautiful black Prius in the ass. Dig this - only a slight dent. Some people may whine about this pain in the ass, but hey, that's all it is, a pain in the ass. It's not a major life problem, it's my car. The fortuitous omen about the event is that DubbleD & me are safe & sound, not a scratch on us. Pain in the ass is the $110 I have to pay to put a new light because even though only the cover is damaged on the outside shell, the entire light fixture must be replaced. Replacing the light means total removal of the fender. Can you imagine? Simple becomes complicated. Isn't that the way of life?
Hey I have an angel looking over my shoulder because by now I should've been dead a dozen times. I am fortunate to be here today to share this with you.

"Psss Let Me Tell You A Secret!" (girls only)

All right I'm gonna reveal the secret. The time is sworn. Today I had some time off for good behavior after a fully loaded built in drama. No thank god it didn't concern the baby mama. But on to more important girlie talk.
I'm coming down off my writing spree where I've been writing about writing & reading, writing poems or articles & interviews, & writing my novel. I have to come down from all that to talk plain girl-talk shit.
The other day, Vanessa Martir, one of my homies, told me where to go to buy my next bra. She said, "You've got to visit Victoria's Secret when I complained about my recent & unsuccessful bra search. Thank you Vanessa. I found some really cute bras and now I'm waiting for my coupons so I can buy more of them.
Can you believe it gals that before this I didn't have a clue as to how to make my tits look like a shelf. Then this gal helping me at VS says, this is our shelfari bra. Anyway this was great fun but annoying too. It took a lot of work to find the perfect bra with the perfect fit, but I admit I am now sold, VS is the place to go.
I had to try on about 8 bras before I found the one with the perfect fit. From there it went fast and suddenly I had 6 perfect fits. I decided to only take 3 because of the special coupon deal that came with the credit card application. Through all this DubbleD waited patiently for me. He got busy with his poetry and likely just forgot about me when I suddenly reappeared. He was relieved and hungry to see me in my new clothes which he deserved after all that patient waiting.
I can't believe I'm writing about this but what good are secrets if they're not shared. Psss, it's my secret 2!!!!

thinking reading & writing

My characters come alive when I write them and very often I am acting entire scenes out while writing ... or so it would seem to anyone watching me. This is great for writing dialogue because when you speak your characters' lines you know when they ring true.
DD says he never did this before but by watching me he observes how it helps me. I do this with my narrative poetry as well. I love friends with keen ears too. I like to read to people from my book or new poetry. Either. Somehow either way - I'm not exactly what you expect me to be. I've been compared to post modernist and confessional style poets but the truth is, at the time I was being accused of following or imitating them, I had never read Ginsberg or Sylvia Plath. I was too busy writing 10 to 30 page term papers several times each term. I didn't have time for much else besides being a part time mom. Back then, I didn't do a lot of creative writing except for my journals. I went to Columbia for 8 straight years to get a B.A. & M.S.W.. Before that was me & my GED.
It's kind of amazing when you consider that drop out Joy became the ivy league drop in and now has two masters degrees. Colombia is tough and competitive - I kid you not. To maintain a 3.3 average is a full time job. After I finally graduated and settled into a J. O. B., I began writing again. It's hard out here for us poets and writers.
The point is that sometimes it's a deterrent when you really are difficult to pigeonhole. When you sound truly like you and no one else - it's harder to fit in anyplace. People say they want creative and unique because that is what we're all trained to say. The truth is sometimes the feeling you get from reading someone and feeling uncomfortable can be ok too and has its own power. Not everyone can love me or you or anyone else's work. Some people are naturally more controversial and colorful. It's the way life goes. "Explore ... Search for more, no more prisoners of war..."
Celebrating page 170 on my grind plus maintaining this blog and writing poetry too...
Oh and I forgot and working on the magazine and two anthologies!