worst mistake yet

My thighs ache with

muscles strained from;

too hard workouts after too long away from the gym,

walking in too high heels for too damn long on a too January afternoon,

and two short children with two hands each grabbing closer and closer to 

their Mommy's no-no zone.

Each of the little brats, which you refuse 

to take care of, lest take them to work one morning so I can get 

some bloody rest,

is asking if they can return home.

Hell, I'll take them home,

I'd shove them so far up some other unlucky woman's

no-no zone and pray to whatever the fuck there is

left to pray to

that they weren't mine,

that I didn't have to look after 

something that I never wanted at all,

but I am now stuck with

for the next twelve years... at least.

And that unlucky woman can have sore thighs from;

not working out every day,

wearing the most painful shoes known to humanity just to feel pretty for one second of her horrible day,

the spawn she produced hanging on to her every second.

Whereas, my sore thighs will only be from

too much sex that is too good from too many people,

too many cocks in Mommy's no-no zone, with their owner's

two hands spreading, grabbing, making Mommy scream;

something she hasn't done for any reason other than punishment in 

two years. Too damn long, if you ask me. 

authenticity on prom night

While scalding my tongue on a Grande-Extra Hot-No Whip-Soy-Six Shot Espresso-Four Shot Hazelnut-Vanilla Latte from the least authentic of places, the Starbucks that is attached to the close Whole Foods (the other is a 20-minute drive, and with gas prices these days, who can afford the trip, much less the food?), I said to my self, "Self, what are you?". And, while still sipping the offending beverage, I realized my faded skintight jeans and ironic tee paired with pink ballet flats, obnoxiously bright scarf tied in a way that is just too complex to do and takes twenty minutes every morning (so cool that now even Jezebel is making fun of it) and vintage biker jacket, and glaring through sunglasses so big a majority of my face is obscured, we are all the same. Hipsterocity is no longer authentic, thus the ultimate irony of a style's demise: designed with the intention of not caring and being one's true self, is so hip now that everyone is doing it-- from the soccer moms to the 2.5 brats they're toting around. It's an atrocity I tell you: "my authenticity has been stolen," I think as I down the rest of my latte that has now reached a drinkable temperature and walk out. At my car, I see the woman who dropped the eggs a few days ago glaring at me, too bad she tucked her skirt into her hose, hag.

unhygienic restroom practices

Grabbing my wrist-

so narrow, your nephew could wrap his hand around

(and he did, last night, at the cinema hesitant

to remove

his gloves for fear of impropriety and

frostbite)-

was a classic unnecessary gesture.

Calloused and cracked and

crying for a covering of lotion,

which I have and you could have

borrowed,

shackles

made of snow topped

with bloodied cuticles

that I did not bloody

touch.

I fear you do 

not wash your hands upon exiting the restroom,

otherwise my gloved palm

would be in yours,

despite being quite adept at 

crossing the street without assistance (I

have been for quite 

some time) from you.

But, that is disgusting and now

my wrist-

so gently held this evenings' past-

needs at the very least some

Purel, 

which I have and you could have

borrowed. 

I would let you, after your hands were cleansed

of course.

suburban utopia

Your car keys tumble out of your hand and hit the frozen ground. "Shit," you say, "this is a perfect morning," as the eggs slip out of the Whole Foods bag to meet the keys. As you stand there, yolk splattered, I laugh. The suede on my rather expensive boots is, now, also marred by your clumsiness. You glare, pleading for help, as I get in my car and begin negotiating my way to the parking lot's exit. "Shit," I say, "this is a perfect morning."

(cross-posted on www.sixsentences.ning.com)

untitled

right now you are snoring.

ordinarily this would be endearing,

but i am exhausted

after chasing the children all day.

i did 

not choose to carry 

your genes into the next generation.

as much as i love you,

there should not be more

of you.

please, purchase those strips that lay across

your nose

and open your sinuses.

i am exhausted.

i love you.

but i need to sleep.

the weight of the world is love

Allen Ginsberg is haunting me. Not in the eery, poetic way... more so in the "I'm going to find you and kill you because you are not yet published, Miss Mari" way. I see his hair- vaguely reminiscent of a mad professor- and owl glasses that sheathed nearly expressionless eyes in my dreams. 

Not that I am dreaming much, as of late.

It is not that I do not want to publish, oh Great Ghost of Ginsberg Past. I do. However, generally publishers enjoy having a manuscript of sorts to work with. Or so I've been told. 

(the tea I am drinking tastes like marijuana)

I write constantly. Maybe not constantly, but rather I THINK about writing constantly. Life tends to get in the way of said things, though. Life, and dead poets popping into torrid fantasies between myself and David Duchovny (uninvited, if I may add).  

I enjoy broken people.