The Day She Stopped Complaining

And Got to Work

He was right
If only she would stop complaining
The world revolves around him, anyway
So she can’t complain
He’s not really hurting anyone
He feels great
Isn’t that the point?
That is why she arrived,
To serve his high
Well, she stopped complaining today
And now he’s being taken away
Complaining about what is unfair and inhumane
She got to work, unafraid
Of a wrong she had to right
Too bad he couldn’t just change his mind
He had too much fear inside
This is what happens when she no longer complains
The world is a bed she makes
It’s her world to share
With men who don’t complain

The narrative of power is changing. Women are not mere sidecar riders with a role in someone else’s story. They are the story. The human race has no story without them.

Women don’t want to put their thumb on the power scale, they are removing the male entitlement thumb off. And all the Weinsteins of the world know that.

We are no longer having a one way conversation. Now everyone is powerful

IMAGE: Oren, AKA Solitarium

No Call

Disconnected

No Call

No Call

No Echo

Nobody signaling ‘over here’

No finger pointing

Even with whom I’m connected to,

There is no connection

I’m a fly

Wanting to join the party

I only crash them

A door to door salesman

Nobody buying

No longer charming

Been feeling really disconnected from everyone and everything, lately. An island. I’ve even put down my phone. I start to wonder how alienation will take form on my face. It’s just me and the news; what a weak combination.

So I start from the beginning. I walk. I walk among trees. I walk along the shore. I walk with the river. Mother is a good place to start to connect. I’m still at her breast. I will grow soon.

I want to touch nothing. I have nothing to say. But maybe I’ll start to wave.

 

 

Holding Fast

Holding Fast

Holding Fast

I’m digging my claws into my own skin
Holding fast and staying on target
True to who I am
I’m being clingy to me
I am my own codependent
I stubbornly stand my ground
Not giving into the unfair Siren sound
I won’t dance to music I hate
I won’t be the patient one among thousands of aggressors
I am my own over baring mother
My own demanding child
I play possum to coercion 
I agree and validate others so they forget about me
I won’t bleed for someone else’s pleasure
I can’t be swayed to sit in someone else’s shade
Not today

I don’t want to do what I don’t want to do. How often do we find ourselves doing things we’d rather not be doing? Or worse, hate? The flip side being, we sacrifice doing what we truly want to do. Our attention repeatedly goes to what we don’t want, instead of what we do. Then life becomes barren and we wonder why.

I’m selfishly plowing forward with only what I want to do. Guess what? Nobody suffers for it. I’m even nicer. Appeasing others is making their relief from suffering my responsibility. I’m happy to help, but not to the point of joining in, then I’m not helping.

I see love in others where I am my true self. When you get yourself, you celebrate others instead of control them. Let’s keep going in this direction.

IMAGE: Jake Baddeley

Don’t Tax the Rich Guy

Don’t tax the rich guy
I’ll be him one day
I don’t want to pollute my future self
Don’t tax the rich guy
I won’t want it when I’m him
I believe I will be him
so I protect the delusion
of my future self
by letting the rich guy
have all the profits
They will be mine one day
Don’t tax the rich guy
I’m on your side, rich guy!
May I have a yacht ride?
I believe in you
and you will be me one day soon
You are the ideal to be preserved
so we protect you
Don’t tax the rich guy
I’m buying my ticket to be you
I don’t want to do anything
that will erode my possibilities
Eroding the rich guy world
is erosion of my ideal self

…Well, isn’t this an emotional way of helping the rich get richer…. Know anyone like this? The unspoken prosperity gospel.

IMAGE:  Mario Sanchez Nevado, Deep

Fall in Love with Me

Fall in love with me
I need the chemistry
An addict in the third degree
Fall in love with me

Taste my savory sweet
Wave my flag of defeat
You’re the fire’s heat
Taste my savory sweet

You’re the man in me
Powerful physically
Burst my energy
You’re the man in me

Fall in love with me
I need the chemistry
An addict in the third degree
Fall in love with me

Take me for a ride
I invite you inside
The worse of me supplied
Take me for a ride

Promises I’ve made
Perpetuate the shade
Your hand was better played
Promises I’ve made

Fall in love with me
I need the chemistry
An addict in the third degree
Fall in love with me

I’ve been dead before
Spilled upon the floor
Darkness’s little whore
I’ve been dead before
I’ve been dead before
I’ve been dead before

Fall in love with me
I need the chemistry
An addict in the third degree
Fall in love with me

Image: Boicu Marinela; Pen and Ink Drawing “breaking”, 2012

Perfect Sick Sense of Humor

and a weight in my pocket

Is God dangling a carrot,

or is the carrot God?

Perhaps my efforts are laughable

What happened to the transcending flow

of oxygen and love?

Now, even what’s precious has hardened 

The wind of spirit usually up lifts

Now, the spirit is something to carry

A weight in my pocket

In high school, one of my favorite songs was Depeche Mode’s “Blasphemous Rumors”. The song seemed less dramatic back then, but bless “The Mode” for not being neon happy 80’s music. Nevertheless, it’s what’s looping in my brain’s playlist right now; not because of the tragic story of the daughter in the song, but because of the head-thrown-back, mouth wide opened, belly bouncing, bellowing God character.

Below is another older poem of mine exploring God being the essence of all things perfect, including the perfect sick sense of humor (favorite songs get into the blood). God is a fine point, as well as a five o’clock shadow. I objectify him. Calling God he is even objectifying. In addition, spirituality becomes solid, even burdensome. That bothers me more than God being a pain in the ass – a spirit in pain and causing pain.

I realize that our spirits don’t and can’t always carry us. We have to carry them, sometimes. I must be heavy for my spirit. She lies awkward and unconscious in my arms after crawling to me. She’s the victim in God’s and my conflicts. We both know that.

Perfection

The most perfect 
sick sense of humor
Next to the most perfect storms,
and perfect timing, and sunsets
Perfection is not just
good, happy, love, universe
Perfection can be 
the perfect hate, accident, pain,
cyclone, war
Death is not bad, it’s perfect
The wild is not evil,
it’s perfectly neutral
Want perfection to be love?
Make it love
Darkness is perfection, too,
just don’t choose it
Perfection is neutral 
Perfection is extremes
Penetrates, surrounds, expands,
creates, lives after death,
never lives, tangible, non-tangible
Nothing to prove, an idea
And so romantic

– Even The Smallest Bird Casts a Shadow, ©2015

Image: ? 2013 Anyone know?