Saturday, July 9, 2011

The devil Sells Prada

she gave her red heart to that red devil
just to
walk in shoes with red bottoms
pretending she had wings given by God
flying first class
to destinations she couldn’t spell or pronounce
but the landscape would make a great twitpic
maybe gain her another follower

she is living for the wrong things
living for things
not for the feelings or the memories or what the world has to offer
never thinking of what she could give to the world
never thinking
living lonely
always surrounded by people
people that don’t love her, people she pretends to love
people that don’t need her, and people she needs
to upkeep the persona she has created in order to have these people around her
to validate her presence on earth
poor chile…
that she has sitting at home with her mama
while she chases her dreams and illusions of grandeur
and all the rest of the bull that can fit inside her dream seller’s mouth
making the tip of his manhood her key to the top
of nowhere
a price she is willing to pay
a price that she has continuously paid
as she lets these guys run trains
of scams all through her
no buyer’s insurance
just the assurance of the comfort these empty promises give her
empty words
empty hearts
an empty education savings account for the daughter
she will have walk in her footsteps
teaching that the highest point of success is being the baddest chick on a  D-Boy’s arm
or rather a “producer/rapper/business owner”
let him tell it
is all she ever does

she sketches out her future in her mind
uses the lies they tell as her blueprint
if all else fails she can work her way up to a ballplayer
write a tell-all 
after she leaves him and takes half when she finds out what she already knew
she titles her book “#winning” 
poor chile…
that she envisions in her mind
never relying on Plan B, because that would ruin her chances of getting that jackpot fetus she so desires
so she sticks to plan A 
emergency conception

she sees her name written in the stars
on the Walk of Fame
known for her role as a Real Housewife 
a role she set out for when she decided being “basic” wasn’t good enough
fixing her hair in the bathroom of another hotel room that she has to leave before his wife comes banging on the door screaming she knows another one has jumped on him
a jump off
swearing up and down she is not like the rest
flying above it all
not realizing that she is identical to the description of the Prodigal Son
lost and away from home
eating and lying with pigs
rising with no more fortune than a crumpled up piece of paper she got in a cookie

a lifetime of gambling her soul 
auctioning her self-worth to the highest bidder
until no more number cards are raised
no one there to claim her
she’s no longer considered vintage goods
just trash
decomposing in her designer wear
tasteless to vultures
she picks herself up
reaches into her Birkin bag
for a new hustle
decides to renew her contract with the red devil
making sure to stay far from his flame
she’s smart enough to know plastic melts
signing her name on the dotted line
this time to walk in a pair of red McQueens
poor, poor chile…

Wednesday, March 30, 2011


Where has my inspiration gone these days?

I have so much unfinished work, ideas that popped into my head that I had to jot down, but have not been able to complete. I wouldn't call it writer's block... it's a case of life.

Having to deal with the hectic moments thrown at us on a day to day basis have the tendency to take us off track. It forces us to live on the surface with no time to get too deep.

No time. Not enough hours in the day.

It's so funny how the realities of life give inspiration and take it all away at the same time...

Excuse my rambling...I don't even have time to make sense of my thoughts.

Oh, life!

Sunday, March 13, 2011

last night

Photo By Christina Kretchmer

lust-kissed stains on a navel
adventurous lips exploring her land
his fingertips colonizing her sacred places
touches chilling her core
she drips from condensation
writing love letters in her skin
watching each letter stream
hitting the floor
oh, all the letters they’ve written in the dark and walked upon in the day
their bodies and breath in rhythm, harmonizing a capella
a choir directed by love
producing a sound that drives her to tears
he licks them away
his grip tight, her body relaxed within his security and safeness
bodies so close, his heart pumps her blood to continue her existence
her lungs give him breath to moan praises to her name
from the outside in he kissing the scars left
from wars fought long ago against
careless visitors who stomped all over her terrains
he’s delicate
treats her body like a sanctuary
a body that gives him life and is the host of creation
he caresses the outside of her womb with his tongue
in gratitude
she guides his head to places that his irises have yet to see
trembling as he finds her undiscovered islands
no mouth can formulate a coherent word in this moment
their bodies talk in many tongues
no translator
their bodies understand each other’s language
knees shattered, she breaks his bones
with just the air from her mouth around his loins
shadows on the wall
a puppet show
telling a story of endless love
making, until their bodies beg for rest
laying wrapped up in sheets with embedded
sweat-shaped outlines
whispering the secrets of where they’ve been
heaven and back

Saturday, March 12, 2011

Friday, March 11, 2011


She said he was the open door to the starlit dreams she wished upon
he said he could be all that and more
but only for a night
she gave in hoping that one night would feel like eternity
wishing clocks would break
so she could forever feel that feeling you feel in the middle that climbs up into your middle searching for a center that doesn’t exist
clit. heart. no soul

Her ceiling stares at her underneath him recording the number of times this scene has taken place
just a different actor
she stares back at the ceiling remembering the day she lost her soul
rather the day her soul was taken
more like the day she prayed the devil to do the things that God wouldn’t do for her
all for that feeling

She crosses her fingers while she crosses her legs around him
hoping that he stays, locking him in incase he tries to leave
her eyesight sore
bruised by the backs turned to them running the opposite way
she calls out, but her voice is unfamiliar
they don’t even remember her name
the conversation doesn’t get that deep
she has no face
exists from the neck down, sometimes just from the waist

she invites him into her earth
tries to tell its history through her body
he doesn’t speak her language
nor cares to learn
he’s but a mere traveler passing through
packing up souvenirs

He becomes another ellipses in her narrative
an incomplete character
an outline
a blank waiting to be filled

She repeats to herself that this time will be different and this one will be the one…
ignoring the sun rising at his falling

Blinded by her heart’s fears that plummet out her eyes
she’s sees the door open
she whispers: “but you are the open door to the starlit dreams I wish upon”

The door closes in answer

But only for a night.


Memories washed ashore of a time before
that is never no more
but just a sore
bandaged and forgotten
until the salt
reminding you to leave it open

calling you back to my center

Anyone who knows me well, knows I love to write, used to write, and wants to continue to write. Life's changes can center and decenter you all at once. I decided to let up on the suffocation of expression.

Let's see how this goes...