I decided to be nostalgic
And flip on the Fresh Prince.
The "gentle" comedy cheers me up,
But then again, laughter is infectious.
I'm on a marathon now
With this show on reruns.
Watching every episode
Until one...

You watch a sitcom and expect
To chuckle and cackle along with the audience.
You expect your heart to be lifted
Out of whatever darker place you've been.
You don't expect it to hit so close to home
That your throat closes up
And your lungs burn with the need to breathe
But you can't
Because suddenly where there was the sound
Of deep throated guffaws,
Of bellyaching mirth,
Is only uncontrollable weeping and sobs
You never knew a sitcom could draw.

Will: I didn't need him then, I don't need him now.
Philip: Will...
Will: No, you know what, Uncle Phil? I'ma get through college without him, I'ma get a great job without him, I'ma marry me a beautiful honey, and I'ma have me a whole bunch of kids. I'ma be a better father than he ever was, and I sure as hell don't need him for that, 'cause there ain't a **** thing he could ever teach me about how to love my kids!
[long pause]
Will: [breaks down] How come he don't want me, man?

That echo in my soul:
How come she don't want me, man?

Those couples on TV
That never look like they would be together
End up being together season after season
Laughing and crying
Loving and loopy
Late nights and early mornings
Sarcasm and seriousness
Give a helping hand when it's needed
Look back laughing about the times they messed up
But never letting it hurt what really matters.
That's my life.
That's my long distance sitcom

For a baby, I am unkempt,
But for an adult, I am very unkempt.
People can tell me my age just by looking,
So when I bashfully admit I am 21,
I actually have no bash left,
Because I used all of it on my ***** sneakers and chipping nail polish,
and hangnails and tangled split ends in a scrunchie,
and leftover acne from the homecoming dance when I tried to erase it away with my mother’s makeup, two shades too light, two left feet as I had not grown fully into my limbs.
And they can see how aware I was of my pointy chin when I was thirteen years of self-conscious, repeating all the better responses to conversations, like my life was some laugh track sitcom,
just like I do right now,
many days, still,
in notebooks, to plants, to the bank machine, to the mirror at the optometrist, to the grocer when I run errands,
because even though now I run errands and have checks to cash,
I still have baby hair to bash,
and I laugh the same laugh,
with my eyes that turn into little moons,
thinking in the same cartoons,
under good eyebrows, though unkempt,
above the toil of braces and 21 years of chapped lips.

I was once God's Picasso painting
(the Guernica era).
Chuck Jones' illustration
of the tortured artist,
laid out like Wile E. Coyote
on a bed of scalding rocks
and a white flag screaming "SURRENDER"
clenched with both palms.

If it were feasible,
I'd have dove head first
into the smoky center of the sun
if it meant my audience understood
the shrieking woes I had to bellow through
to reach their overwhelmed palates.

But Tragedy is the sitcom foil
that has long outstayed its menopausal welcome,
and I would much prefer a haunting.

To Hell with those
who repulse the flies with
the vinegar of exploitation,
gawking as their spit seeps
through seven layers of collected scars,
who ventilate the wrists
to keep the audience comfortable.

Real aesthetic power
comes from a shower
of light hail on the spine,
the moments a ghostly hand
****** you on the finger
with quietly hidden truths
always whispered from a field away.

It's far more bracing,
the lump in the throat,
not the electrical gasp of shock.

It's a far greater sign
of a forthcoming apocalypse,
the angel weeping in pain,
not the footsteps
of the wailing banshee.

The wisp
over the wallop.

"C'mon. I haven't had *** in three months and I feel like I'm going to explode."

"That's not good."

"You're telling me. Wish there was someone who'd take care of it for me."

"I'll be over in a bit."

I drove in calculated trance.
I'd made the trek hundreds of times.
I was looking forward to showing her
new tricks I'd learned,
but I feared the segue.

The desperation call from an ex--
always easy to bed, I have yet to feel regret,
but finding the energy to strike up chit-chat
before the undress--
always the hardest part.

I couldn't remember the code to her neighborhood's gate,
so I lied in wait, until some sappy black SUV
strolled in first.

I pulled into her parking spot.
Rubbed my eyes.
Sprayed on a dash of cologne.
Dragged a comb across my hair.
Looked at the clock on my dash--2:00 a.m.
I aged much too far for these
fires,
but I inhaled deeply,
slammed the car door,
marched to the door,
rang the bell--
a bark,
a scramble of paws,
then bare feet patting wooden floors.
She opened the door,
gauging my face to see if she was allowed to smile.
I put my right arm
on the low-side of her back,
peered over her shoulder.
The house was littered with dusty textbooks,
dog food, bras,
cut out magazine articles,
and half-empty cups.

"You smell good," she said easing into a grin.

"Thanks. You too."

"Want to watch some Disney Channel?"

"You're still doing that?"

"Makes me feel innocent. C'mon." She grabbed my hand.
Led me to her bedroom in the back.
Cartoons laughed
as I pulled off my shoes.
She desperately fought for conversation,
"So it's been awhile."

"Yep."

"How are classes?"

"Good," I sighed, looked at her brows, "yours?"

"They are pretty good. I am finally getting to student teach."

"Awesome."

"Yeah, it is. I really love my kids."

"They lucked out."

"I wouldn't say that."

Her ******* looked bigger.
Maybe it was the shirt.
She was in tiny khaki shorts,
her toes chipped--painted red.
She let her hair down.
Sat on the bed next to me.

"How are the fellas?"

"Nonexistent. How's the girlfriend?"

"We're on a break."

"Sorry to hear that."

"For the best."

She kept curling her toes
under her ***,
her hands tugged at her shirt
anxiously,
the cartoons went to commercial break,
she started to open her mouth again,

"Sooo--"

I snagged her hands,
pinned her to the bed,
licked the exposed portion of her chest,
unbuttoned her shorts.
Pink ******* with white roses on them,
I pulled them off quickly,
threw them as far away as possible.
I gnawed on her thighs,
while sneaking my hands under her shirt,
her ******* were exceptionally vocal--
more so than any other woman's I have seen.
I tore at her shirt and bra until both were gone.
She stared at me wildly, trying to understand
where the old man she once knew had gone.
I ******,
I fingered,
I spat,
until her body ached,
she ran her fingertips along my waistband,
and undressed me.
Trying to inspire an *******.
She slurped
and rubbed at my *****,
I started to grab a ******,
but she said she was on "beastly" birth control.
I turned her around,
pumped from behind,
not wanting to look at her eyes
or gaping mouth,
I sent my mind off to fantasizing about
other mouths, *******, and *****
in an attempt to stay hard,
after half-an-hour or so,
her body convulsions became so grotesque,
I pulled out without finishing.

While she shook on the bed,
I pulled on my pants,
"Well, I should probably go."

"I was hoping you'd sleep over."

"We aren't like that."

"We used to be."

"Relationships change."

"So you think we still have a relationship?"

"Sure."

"So do you still love me?"

"No. It's more of a pornographic relationship."

I left her room,
while a tween sitcom mocked me with a laugh track,
I glanced at her family portraits outside her room.
Went into the night.
Went home.
Slept without taking a shower.
Woke to find myself unchanged.
Weary.
Meaningless.
Thirsty for love, sorrow, remorse--anything.

Who says you can't arm twist yourself into doing practically anything? Victoria Beckham — stylish mum, fashion empire czarina and social diva — took that notion a **** few notches higher as she posted a picture of herself on a sofa on a photo sharing site, leg extended high above her head at 90 degrees. The picture went viral immediately with a huge buzz around her impressive flexibility. She captioned the photo, 'It's amazing what you can do in culottes...those ballet classes are paying off!' (sic) It's not the first time she has showed off her moves. Last year in Singapore too, she kicked her stiletto-clad feet into a high pose as she relaxed on a sofa.

These celebs are advocating it, too...

Posh Spice aka Victoria isn't the only one. British actress Kelly Brook showed of her flexi *** on her sitcom show. Actresses like Reese Witherspoon and Jennifer Aniston have also taken up exercise regimens that stretch their bodies to the limit. Angelina Jolie's workouts are said to include the stability ball leg, squats and kickboxing, known build flexibility and balance. Jessica Biel is a firm follower of her five days a week cardio with strength training and pilates classes that have been credited with getting her such a lean ***. And Megan Fox ensures she is flexible, too.

Advantages of being stretchy

Being flexible and stretching out is not the realm of just gymnasts, athletes or swimmers. Anyone can and should be like that, for it's not just before starting a workout that one faces tight hamstrings and a sore back and neck. These are issues that plague those with sedentary jobs as well. Thus, flexibility can help in gym training and dealing with the stressors of everyday life. It also helps the body to heal. Increased flexibility also leads to improved posture. Once the earlier tightness goes away you start to sit right and walk better, too.

How Much?Stretching muscles twice a week is enough to build overall flexibility.

For anyone

A common myth is that being flexible will only work with younger people. It is actually for anyone of any age

Exercises to help you get there

Chest dumbbells: Lie flat on a bench, holding dumbbells in either hand. Now lift the dumbbells overhead together and slowly bring them back. This stretches the pectorals.

Abs stretch: Sit on the ground with the ankles facing each other and the knees flexed. Now put pressure on the knees and press them to make them touch the ground. Hold this for 20 seconds and repeat.

Shoulders delt: Hold the elbow of one arm with the other hand and pull the elbow across the chest. Hold and repeat for the other hand.

Curling cat: Kneel down on all fours and curl the back upwards in the same position. Hold this and start again. This increases flexibility of the back.

Hamstring stretch: Place your leg on any raised area in front you, like a stool or chair. Now, extend it straight without bending the knees and bend the torso to touch the toes. Hold for 15 seconds and repeat.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-melbourne

You don't love
me;
you love the
tip of the iceberg
that is your idea of me;
the sugar-coated mute
leading herds
of unfinished sentences
down the copious hills
of his insecurity;
the nice little writer
whose constant attempts
at legendary one-liners
are as hit-or-miss
as a sitcom still airing
far past its prime.

I possess three biomes,
or, rather, three networks
of personalities and identities.
I am much more than
the Jack Macfarland archetype
lip-syncing to Cher in the one
gay bar in town, tyrannically
governing your wardrobe,
possessing a razor-sharp wit
cast toward the backs of his community
in the form of an outdated punchline-
my work on that show
lost its Willful relevance
and Graceful naivete
years ago.

I am of the generation
fed media saturation
three four-hour meals a day,
who ingested cardboard cadavers
as if they were mother's milk
and internally mutated their
thoughts and desires
to fit the compact time frame
of 30 minutes
to settle the series' worth
of traumas and neuroses
while making it home for dinner
to stay tuned for what's
next in the lineup.

Speaking as a casualty of this
inevitable chain of events,
I regretfully declare that even
those who have seen
every episode of myself
for the past six seasons
are still light years away
from the room full of faces
unencumbered by euphemism.

She laughs, he smiles.
The black forest taste he could only taste at the peak of light beams
Her laugh seems similar, quite similar.
Her haha's outcasted the glooms and dooms
Just as the black forest melted on his taste buds when sun rays streaked upon his shoulder blades.

She cracked a joke, he laughs and nods
Intellectual is what they might say
A brainy maniac she is, who could co-host a sitcom
His Friday nights would now only be filled with her wits
Replacing all the beers and stouts for a while
His once bumpy and rocky throat is nil compared to the highly raised cheekbones visible during a good laugh

But one day she cried.
The guilt he carries overshadowed his sympathy.
Her big swollen eyes
Her pinkish and warm face which was covered in dribble
Hadn't he known?
All those time he made somersaults, he was drown deep below
He could breakthrough,
but was too mesmerized by the mermaid's blinking fishtail and scaly skin.

And she saved him
From being turned into a merman
Only then he was back to square one
Where her laughters, her jokes and her sobs are actually his sugar crush, his Gatsby gold
As always, she was after all, his soul saver.

I wonder if my late night plays
Will ever be relayed
To a generation that is slayed
In my play every black home
Has two stories, a fence
and a dad that won’t roam
Their cars ain’t all chrome
No bars on the windows
No grandmas saying lord knows
When cops shows
There are more colors than grey
No dope boys on the corner cliche
Or dogs on chains barking to get away
The colors blue and red stand for a flag
The black youth aren’t in a body bag
And pants never sag
Black men aren’t scary and mean
The system isn’t their adversary or
The silver screen
They don’t fill cemeteries nor chase
The color green
Black women have a name
Not ***** or **** used as shame
No fakes buts for their fame
The son has more hope
Then shooting a ball and ****** bout dope
He aspires to use a stethoscope
The daughter is strong and free
She can either write a song or get a PhD
Her future is whatever she wants it to be
Their ain’t thugs on tv our color
Not every sitcom has one strong black single mother
Or get drunk and fight one another
Gun violence is a joke
the police don’t chock our folk
Our music don’t promote drug use
And Gucci don’t ******
Drivebys are now hi’s
Every family is woke and wise
It’s sad to know
That this world won’t ever exist
Because the world outside
Is to nightmarish

'All nature seems at work ... The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing ... and I the while, the sole unbusy thing, not honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.'

My fingers can’t trace the origin of the age old euphemism
Its roots planted firmly in childhood paired with sitcom cliches
A conversation never had with my mother

I learned the moment he touched me
My mind buzzed as the sweetest nectar kissed my lips
Arms turned to wings and we flew away

The age of fourteen
A baby learning where babies come from
Innocence poured out like an overfilled glass of milk

When he left I was a hummingbird
Heart at 1260 beats per minute
Fading in and out of anxiety

He was the bee
Flew to the next delicate flower
and ****** her dry like a parasitic insect

Always told to be weary of disguised villains
Old women with apples
Wolves dressed like grandmothers
Never of the natural behavior of pollination

Yours Truly
Loving You Avenue
Kissime, Missmeana
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Dear Love of my Life,
You do not know me yet but, I am the love of your life and you are mine. Try not to over look me if we ever meet. Pick me out the crowd of beautiful women you see from where ever we meet, whether it be in public, private, or through a computer screen. Oh yea, and try your best to judge me by my personality. Look past the color of my skin for it may interfere with your better judgement of me. For all you know I could be white, purple, or mahogany. Once, we are together theres somethings you should remember. One is that I won’t completely hate you if you forget our anniversary. I’ll only pretend to so we can feel like a sitcom family. Second, my favorite flower is the lotus but I’ll settle for roses as long as they are never red, I prefer white or black instead.Third, don’t be what you think I expect you to be because I really love spontaneity. So don’t be surprised if for vacation I’d like to go skydiving, bungee jumping, or skiing. By the way I have of list of things I’d like to do before I died and those activities are numbers one, two, and three. Promise to never lie to me unless you are trying to protect me. Yes, I know honesty's the best policy but a little white lie never hurt anybody. I hate to be told what to do unless of course it is by you. So I guess I’ll be fair and not give you too many rules. This last one is a request of you for me, Spontaneously tell me you love me.
Sincerely yours,
The Love of your Life

Dear Science and Math,

I pray to you because you are what I believe in. Today is the midterm elections for 2018, and boy are we in a mess. Evolution, I would like to apologize that we have devolved as a society to allow our government to function as a really terrible sitcom. Economics and Statistics, I feel your heavy gaze as we still have 2 more years before we hopefully take the bankrupt millionaire out of office. Every day we live under a system whose poster child mocks its citizens and strips the majority of their rights. Their rights to Medical Care, a healthy and functioning Environment, and a Financial System which can support the majority, not just the top 1%.

Today I did my part. I practiced my right . . . no my privilege to vote. Too many people chose not to vote. I didn't vote for the last 6 year because I felt I was uneducated in the topic. I felt I was flying blind, something I could have taken 15 minutes to change. If I were a citizen of Georgia I would have lost this privilege, because of 5 years of voting inactivity. If I were of Hispanic descent I would most likely have had to jump through excessive hoops because of a hyphenated last name. There are so many people who don't want to vote because they fear jury duty, or they don't want to wait in line, or they don't want to make time to vote, or they are just plain convinced the system is rigged and their opinion doesn't matter. Let me tell you something, your ballot only "doesn't matter" if you don't hand one in. In fact, it is probably working against the team you would have voted for.

I am a woman, which mean only in the past 100 years was my second X chromosome "granted" this privilege. There are still grandparents alive today who remember when, specifically, black people could not vote. There are also plenty of other cases of this "right" being restricted from huge groups of people because of, in reality, what makes them unique.

So, I sit here today Science an Math, praying to you that my little corner of the United States may become a better place for ALL of its inhabitants.

Please let the scales tip in the favor of justice.

Alcohol pulsing in her veins
Dancing in sweet August rains
Hair flowing down her back
Wild as a cub about to attack
I take a swig from the bottle, all bitter and sweet
It makes me feel a little more complete
Drenched clothes sticking to our skin
I couldn't help but grin
She's got that look in her eyes
Like a hundred thousand fireflies
She pounces,teeth jokingly bared
She lands on me, I'm totally unprepared
I stare into twin green lights
part of me dies, part of me sighs, part of me delights
Her lips find mine in the dark
And I swear there was a spark
An emotional/electrical discharge
Her eyes enlarge
Like biolumincent spheres
The water and ***** wash away our fears
She giggles like a babbling stream
Its a hazy dream
Fingertips in the notches in her spine
Her mouth moves with mine
Alone with ourselves, the ***** and the rain
Our bodies sing the same old refrain
In the morning we experience a sitcom reset
We both pretend to forget

You'll always be my favorite kind of film. The sitcom without the laugh tracks or a romance without the actors. The kind of irony that could make me laugh till it hurt. The way I went from pining for you to vivisecting you against the metal of a surgical table, because maybe if I cracked open that soft, stupid flesh I'd finally be able to understand why. How you unspool me, all these years between us but you're still the only boy that's ever made me cry without hitting me first. Mum says she liked me better before I got off the pills. Honestly, I only cut them up once they're dead mother, we all have our hobbies.  I used to rewrite scene after scene of the woulda-coulda-shoulda's of our script and hide them from you. I used to be a lot of things. Don't we all miss me on pills.

He said boring, safe.

He said 9 to 5, nothing brave.

Well, he’s got it in his head that he’s special, he’s a rebel

‘cause he’s only 17 but the walls are lined with bottles,

‘cause he’s only a kid but he shreds and he’s bled

like the best of the living, breathing, plastic models

under lights like lines and smoke like signs.

Alternative *******, kicks convention like a stone

on a dodgy, moonlit road laced with beaten brick and bone.

But I walked that street with your own two trees--
shivered in the neon glow—

and you’re just a hammock swinging between them, same as me—

I know you know.

We were thrown into the forest, stood together, two by two,

and if you’d dragged me into the shadowy thicket right along with you,
invited me out grasping at poison with your avenging leeches—

maybe I’m not so unfulfilled as you’d like to believe when you’re giving speeches,
strumming and shaking above me, so proud to break away.

Alternative *******, look this way.

I listen to the *** Pistols, jack.

I wear leather.

I text in class.

I sneak trinkets on the side,

under the table, on my mother’s unwitting dime.

Last week I put *** in my pineapple juice because no one else was home.

I write on the walls, I run in the halls

with scissors, with a smirk.

I chase ice cream trucks, I blow off homework.

Don’t you scoff at Metallica, call it an old man’s band.

Cats are badass, son, mine will tear up your hands.
And the garbage on your T-shirt wouldn’t be around to fuel your *******

if Metallica hadn’t taken the stage and taken the hits.

So when you come to town after the laughs fill a decade,

and you want to reunite so the memories don’t fade,

I’ll meet you for drinks sometime after five,

and I’ll go home in time to wake up before nine.

And you better listen close when I tell you how happy I am,

how I work alright 40/7, saying yes sir and no ma’am.

And maybe I drop acid under a bridge between F and M,

splash the city walls and bathroom stalls

with expletives and half-brained philosophy on a whim.

Or maybe I hug a homemade quilt and wait for the clock to tilt

while some ****** sitcom grasps at humor under oath.

And maybe I do both,

and maybe I’m smiling either way.

I’ll tell you this in tumbling words and phrases from our old days,

and then I’ll tap a finger on my soda, safe as houses,

houses like the twin towers that we came from, weighing ounces,

and I’ll ask about you.

And I swear on my 9 to 5 life that I hope you’re smiling too
when you tell me how the band is doing great, playing shows,

how the records fly like spinning pizza pie

in grimy downtown windows.

And when you go home into the stars and you pick up your guitar,

I hope you remember an earlier night, no matter how distant it seems,

that syrupy discourse when I gave you dollars for dreams

and you thanked me with words like boring, safe, because of some one-day preferences.

I hope you realize that I can smile through acid and expletives

just as well and true as I can smile at quilts and clocks,

so don’t put me in a box.


My happiness doesn’t need your special stamp of alternative approval.

You were a talented British actor but sadly, not anymore.
If you hadn't died, today you would've turned ninety-four.
You starred in an episode of "Fawlty Towers" and "Dalziel and Pascoe".
Forty-four years ago, you starred in "The Adventures Of Picasso".
You starred in an episode of "Last Of The Summer Wine".
You starred in an episode of "Mogul" and "Space: 1999".
You starred in a short lived British sitcom titled "Cuffy".
After living a long life, you died at the age of ninety-three.
When you starred in Fawlty Towers, you beat up John Cleese.
Today would have been your birthday, may you Rest In Peace.

It was easy,
The clumps and locks
Hit the floor
Like footfalls,
I stood behind you.
It had been two
Years almost to the day
Since you had stopped
Using shampoo,
And your hair was
The softest I'd ever felt.
The shrimp baking
In the oven
Overwhelmed the gentle
Scent of apple cider vinegar
I've grown accustomed to,
Snug behind you,
My nose near your scalp,
Falling asleep.
The night you let me
Cut your hair,
We fell asleep on the couch,
Watching reruns of an
Irrelevant sitcom,
And I awoke after you
Had already gone off
To work.
I rode past a cop
In shorts
On a bike
At Maryland & 9th
On my way to the office,
And he turned to ride
Behind me,
Pulling alongside
Me at Maryland & 8th.
"I just want to say thanks,
For stopping at red lights.
We're out here all the time,
And they see us go through
The lights, and
Think they can too."
"Yea, no problem.
Not trying to
Get my head knocked off."
"You tryin to be funny?"
"No, I said I'm not
Trying to get my
Head knocked off."
"Yea, I heard you,
I'm not stupid."
"I can see that.
You stopped at this red
Light, after all."
"Watch it, or
I'LL knock your
****** head off."
The light changed,
And I set off.
"Yea, get out of here,
Before I decide not
To let you."
Do you remember
How I came home?
Torn pants,
Torn shirt,
Torn skin,
Dragging my mangled
Steel frame
Up the stairs to our apartment?
You ran to me,
Dropped your plate
Of rice and beans all over
The brand new slip cover,
And grabbed my face,
Wetting your hands with my blood.
You got towels,
Got a chair,
Sat me in it,
Stood behind me,
And washed the grit
From my wounds.
My hair fell
Like raindrops
As you cut away
From the injury site.
The feel of your sewing needle
And nylon thread
Passing through
My thin, inflamed skin
Blackened my sight,
And I slipped away from consciousness.
Well,
I couldn't tell you then,
But I've never loved
You more.

My head is ticking like a time bomb.
I rub the back of my hand with my cold sweaty palm.
Silently whimpering, in pain, for my mom,
I kindly ask her to bring a canola oil embalm.

As I rub the embalm at the time bomb,
I can hear a gentle soft psalm.
My life fades away as if it were nothing more than a sitcom.
I perceive my conscious escaping me, but I surprisingly feel calm.

If morning was
too brief to trim
those pine tree prickles
off of your lower limbs, it's okay.
Step 1: ***** hose.

After a mirror's
glance, you will be tempted to panic.
Step 2: Stay calm. Peel
the dead animal
off the side of your cheek.
Let the hairbrush
paste the fly-aways
into a hot, greased bun.

How easy it is
to experience a wardrobe malfunction.
Remember to keep it simple.
Step 3: Slip on
that black pencil skirt,
the polyester one--not
the leather.

No one needs to know
that you were up late
watching sitcom reruns. Remove
the screaming purple rings.
Step 4: make-up. Base
is your friend.

You are now prepared.
Smear on
your finest ruby red
lips, and tuck in
your leopard-print
bra strap.
Step 5: Strut your
stuff. Retail has never seen
such class.

i am a product
of this
society
i pick-pocketed
my personality
from a ghastly array
of tv shows
and teenaged drama
if you would like a re-run
of last night's
late night
sitcom
i'm at your service

i am a product
of this
society
if you want some fashion advice
from me
because i dress
so well
log on to
pinterest
they'll tell you
exactly
what i would
because everything i wear
no matter how weird
or ugly
i wear because
they told me
to

i am a product
of this
society
i do not
think for me
i have an iphone
that has replaced
the normal functions
of my brain
it remembers everything
for me
i know everyone
we talk
all the time
i text
really fast
i'm so connected
i mean,
i'm plugged into
everything...

i am a product
of this society
my thighs
don't touch
and a lovely
mountain ridge
adorns
my back
a cavern
in my
belly
come explore
me
a beautiful
bony
product
of this
society

I AM A PRODUCT OF THIS SOCIETY
and you all should really stop blaming me
for being a social deviant
for being unwilling
to conform
to this new normal
sanity isn't
statistical
and this isn't
1984
meaning:
just because a billion people
do this ****
it doesn't make it
right
doesn't make it
make
sense
i will not hold onto your tail
and follow you
blindly,
society
because you don't know
where the ****
you're going
anyway
if we progress
one more step
we'll all be
dead

Andy Griffith found success when he starred in "The Andy Griffith Show".
That sitcom is still popular today and it was created over sixty years ago.
It was one decade ago today when Andy Griffith took his final breath.
Andy didn't have a funeral, he was buried immediately after his death.
He starred in "Matlock" from 1986 to 1995.
Andy would be ninety-six if he had survived.
Ten years ago today, a famous man died.
Andy had Charisma and talent and that can't be denied.

“When are you leaving?” unknowingly, words slipped out of her mouth, he was packing all of his ancient Mario game discs, in a hurried state.
“Soon” he replied, slowly, he had to leave or would lose his mind, she was driving him insane in every way possible, her heart faltered a little bit more, as he stuffed more things in the duffel bag
Then he asked”why? You’ll miss me?” smirking, his lips drawing into tender smile
“Maybe” doubting, of what she is to him, not knowing of the importance she carries to him.
“Answer me in yes, or no, nothing in-between” he raised his voice a little, waited, he had been waiting, patiently for this moment, he has been in love with her for a while  now, but she had never been responsive, now that he is leaving, cruel fate is looking his way
“Yes, I will, the essence of you” her lips etching in to a smile, then she looked the other way, hiding.
Her heart has been broken to many times before, it’s a risk, but her gut says he’ll be worth it.


I will miss the notes you wrote, symbols you marked in all of my Bukowski books, how you sat in the run-down library across the street, and devoured frost.
I will miss the raspberry flavored macaroons you left in the coffee show where we first met every morning for me, with a snippet of your favorite lyrics attached to the box.
I will miss the way you clicked pictures of me at the oddest of time, with my Polaroid, they always turned out funny and crazy, but you framed them, and hung them on your bedroom wall like the moon hangs in the cobalt sky, delicately, fixed, reminding you of how no matter how hard the times are, a piece of beauty will always be there.
I will miss all the mess in my tiny apartment, all of your shirts, books, PS games and vinyl records tangled together, spewed all over the floor.
I will miss the way you had freckles all over your nose and your weird laugh, the ways your eyes crinkled whenever I made horrible jokes and you wanted to contain yourself from laughing.
I will miss running my hands through your hair, giving excuses that I just want to know how soft they are ,I said they are not ,so every time you washed them, and wanted to prove I am wrong  I was in pure delight.
I will miss you waking early to just watch that 90’s sitcom Seinfeld and way you laughed at a loud volume through it, waking up the neighbors’ dog and your horrible bathroom singing making me cringe and my ears cry.
I will miss your cedar and minty scent and the way your heart beats against mine, hard, quick, pounding against your ribcage, when we are wrapped in each other’s arms.
Yes, I admit I am in love with you and will miss you terribly. Everything about you and all the things you do.
So can you please stay?
Please stay?
Will you?