My protest against patriarchy

TO THE ASSHOLE(S) WHO PUT A SIGN UP THAT SAYS: “Ladies, please be respectful and clean up after yourselves.”

You call me a lady as if you know anything about me. You expect me to conform to your title like a docile, doe eyed nymph, with no mind of her own. I am NOT a lady. I am a human. I may not even have a vagina. I may be an uber-feminine chick, a trans-woman, a sorority girl, of any sexual orientation or fit no stereotype whatsoever. You act as though because I identify with some form of feminine gender, that I have to conform; that I am not capable of being “respectful” or “clean” without your pathetic reminder, as though you are using your crook on a group of little ewes. YOU DISGUST ME.

WE WILL NOT CONFORM to your patriarchal hierarchy. We do not need a reminder to keep our space clean, and we will NOT be called “ladies.” Your dictatorship is over. Any time a sign like the offensive trash you put up before is put up on a bathroom wall, WE WILL TEAR IT DOWN. You have been warned.

My fingers are made of strings
Mood:  caffeinated
Topic: Writing

My fingers are made of strings, my friends

and so are yours. The tick tock of that clock

just might be controlled by the timing of the rhythm of my fingers.

My fingers are made of strings and they push and pull and 

manipulate agitate cogitate and amputate

the way you see hear taste feel understand me

My fingers are made of strings that push and pull

and you can feel the movement of a soul or three on the waters

in the skies over me below you

because in the moments where it counts there are no truths or lies

only the things that are

and my fingers are made of strings

I can't undo my own knots with my fingers

the strings won't undo themselves and before I know it

I'm William Shakespeare and I'm all tangled up

in a web of lies and fear and honesty

and it's all because of these damn string fing ers

that just won't untie themselves.

See, my fingers are made of strings, my friends and so are yours

because the zenith star above won't come crashing down

on its own. You have to pull it down hard

onto buildings and trees and you and me

to cover the mistakes and burn the tangled mess

and start over again 

with these damn fingers that are made of fucking string

cat's cradle games aren't written down

they are stored in memory just like this poem 

Maybe someday the string fingers will stretch out over the 

cosmos and forgive all my mistakes.

Feminazi
Mood:  celebratory
Now Playing: lalalalalaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
Topic: Writing

Feminazi.

What a word.

And what an absurd

little word

it is.

You liken me

to a blonde-haired

blue-eyed

genocidal maniac

who wears “SS”

on his armband

and shoots innocent people

for being Jews.

Well guess what

you stupid fuck

I work to destroy

patriarchy and hatred;

If I wore an armband

“SH” would be the letters

stamped in red:

Sister Hood.

I’ll walk the streets

on foot patrol

crying out for justice;

crushing misogyny;

educating the masses

on the world’s mistakes.

I don’t need a gun to

make my words glue

to your mind

like a sticky bomb;

after all

I do have breasts

and curves that

you, stupid pig

won’t stop staring at

when I talk to you.

You think you’re

so damn funny

with your “clever” word.

“Feminazi.”

How fucking absurd.

If you’ll abuse me

with your words,

how can I trust you

to run my nation

oversee healthcare

keep our borders

from danger?

I am a responsible

citizen

who actually gives a damn

about our world.

And I’m a Nazi,

you abusive

woman-hating

son-of a bitch?

Feminazi.

I’ll show you  a Feminazi.

The D Word, actually
Mood:  not sure
Topic: Heatlh

The Rain Told Me So

Today I went to see the doctor--physician's assitant, actually. She's new--returning to this practice after 6 years of hating California and being married to someone she didn't love, actually. Her name is Carrie, she's blonde, and--pretty, actually.

Obviously intelligent, she gave me dosage directions on how to remove Paxil from my life--kind, actually. We talked about Metformin, and I asked about my dosage--"I'm not diabetic, actually." I related why I've taken the drug--"You're not just insulin-resistant, actually--you're diabetic." The sugar-cubes melt in my blood at too high of a rate--diabetic, actually.

I knew this was coming, being insulin-resistant--having PolyCysitcOvarySyndrome causes diabetes, actually. The "D" word, conjuring up pictures of rotten feet and bad eyes and fatness--terrifying, actually. 

I know which vitamins to take and how to make it better--simple, actually. It's the fear of not knowing what will happen even if I do everything right--horrifying, actually.

I went to my car--it was raining, actually. The rain made me smile, actually. The rain told me that "diabetes" is only a word.

 

 

A poem
Topic: Writing

A few people in my class really liked this poem, so I thought I'd share it with you

 

Symptoms of Dishonesty

Hold my soul for a little while,
                whirl my around like a dervish in trance,
                                fill your hunger with the fruit of my heart,
                                                juggle my id and ego like oranges.
Misunderstood, you spoke of freedom
                I begged for water and you gave me wine.
                                My body was naked, and with silks you clothed me--
                                                what deserving thing have I done?
Hero and shepherd, yet apprentice also,
                your innocent, languid eyes tell a story of ignorant fear
                                Where is bliss to be found in moments like these?
                                                I will beg for mercy and trample your silence—
in pieces of quiet you will be freed.

Pieces for my book
Mood:  on fire
Now Playing: American Pie-Don Mclean
Topic: Writing

So I'm writing a book for an assignment-lots of pieces from my life are in here. Here's one that I read for my class yesterday. It was really hard to do, but I"m glad I shared it.

Antonia

                I can still feel the softness of a white sheepskin rug, and the warmth of a glowing stone fireplace. I remember her hair, dark brown and softly scented, curled around the rim of a two hundred dollar gold-rimmed scotch glass. Was there a halo on her head?

                The fire flickered its reflection against her amber eyes, the same color as the liquid in her glass. My fingers touched her cheek, traveled down to her clavicle, the soft skin just at the top of her breasts.

                I remember that she smelled like a Victoria’s secret Angel—her wings must be hidden, I thought to myself, smiling. Her hands are still small, brown and lovely in my mind’s eye. Every finger fascinated me: I craved the knowledge of their taste, the softness in varying degrees; desired to feel them trace my features, run along my hips, touch the softest, most clandestine places on my body, in my soul.

                I desired her lips on mine—all of them. A woman, like a raw fruit, supple and full, fresh and dripping with sweet nectars. She tasted like spiced wine that first night when we kissed, touched, learned. Toni was the music of the summer nights that we shared.

                We were at Starbucks the first time we met: she ordered a caramel macchiato—grande.  I ordered a pumpkin mocha, which wasn’t in season yet, so I changed to a tall chai tea. She was beautiful, 5’4”, long dark curls, deep olive skin. And dressed to kill in jeans and a maroon button-down. Her smile was more radiant than the sunshine in the well-lit café. I noticed she was reading a book in French, and I quietly asked, sitting a moment away, what it was about. I have no idea what she said after that. Something about a boring old man or a fountain or something else that had no bearing on anything. I could not have cared less about what she said at that moment, but to watch those soft cherry lips move, to see her flip that deep mahogany hair over her shoulder, the sparkle in her amber eyes. Those eyes. Flecked with cocoa chips, clear as a sunset on Orcas Island.

                I lost my mind. Forgot where I was, what I was drinking, even who I was. None of that mattered. All that mattered was her, the angel in the chair adjacent to mine. I don’t remember what we talked about, or who else was there, or anything but the magic of her perfect teeth, fluttering lashes, the blossom of something tucked behind her left ear. Getting up to leave, Toni asked me to come tutor her in French. “I don’t speak French,” I replied. “Of course you don’t,” she grinned. Not grinned, smiled heaven at me. I followed her home.

                Three months of every weekend, hiding from our boyfriends on her sheepskin rug, overlooking the ocean and talking about how much we hated our families turned into a moment when I realized something was wrong. Toni wanted to “come out” to her parents. With me. Glass shattered in my mind. “Come out? me? but I’m not a lesbian.” Those amber eyes turned to mud. Angry, hateful, hurtful mud.

                “You love me,” she said softly, harshly, quietly. Not a question, a command. I shook my head, backing away and gathering my clothes. I did not love her, could not love her. She was selfish. Self-centered. Vain. She gave me pleasures, but refused to try to give me an orgasm. Trust me, it’s not that hard.  I gave her damn near an hundred, or so it seemed, during the times we coupled. Yet I was always left without. And she thought she loved me?

                The next day, I walked through her door, and I still taste the cold, metallic flavor of her kiss after I said “we need to talk.” “Before we talk,” she said, “fuck me.” So I did.

                If angels truly do fall, she was one who walked off the cliff, deep into the abyss of self-loathing. Anger seethed that afternoon from each pore on her body. The rain poured down on that house overlooking the ocean, tears of angels on the water.

                I walked home with a bloody lip, book-sized bruises and plate-chard cuts on my back.  And she thought she loved me? I told her I did not love her, so she hurt me, screamed and begged. Threw plates, books and an urn at me. The rain washed away my pain as I climbed the hills to home.

                She stayed home with a broken heart, that beautiful hair curled around that two hundred dollar scotch glass, and a tear in her amber, bitter eye. Fallen angel.