CLOTHES ARE ART

CLOTHES ARE ART

I can’t worry too much now – I ordered groceries late last night and forgot they were delivered between 6 and 8 am. I also managed to cancel a few Amazon orders I’d made at the time for some skorts in size small (distress tolerance) before they shipped. My therapist at the psych ward would get how important that is, especially since I have so many skorts in a size medium im working my way back to. Amazon skorts from have gotten me through this Agoraphobic, crazy, and anorexic phase of losing myself because 1) they brought me joy, 2) I’m ready to rediscover forgotten items in my wardrobe, and 3) on my worst days, clothes were my form of art. Clothes are a form of choice and self-expression, so CLOTHES ARE ART!

P.S. This is my first hit at a REAL POEM post-psych ward. I know it’s rough, but it was a dream and I got it out. So YAY ME!!

PPS. (I’m an eternal PS’er) This photo is courtesy of Niranjan Photographs in India, where they make the fanciest art out of clothes!

My Mom & Friends (gorgeous Mom on left) making art in the 1970s.

Me making art at in a bathroom selfie at the psych ward

THE AGING PROCESS OF THOUGHT

Purgatory

THE AGING PROCESS OF THOUGHT

Of course, I can only speak for me and mine.
But my Thought Process tends to follow the following process:

Short-term memory begins at thought conception, includes all thoughts thought, and lasts for approximately 48 hours.

Should thoughts surface again
(Where have they been?
Don’t ask me, I don’t know!
Purgatory or another story?
)
To survive as long-term memories on Day 12,
They are completely viable AND guaranteed-returnable memories.
This “mystery” crucible period is brief, yet sadly only 2% of all thoughts survive to emerge as Long-Term-Memories.
Since they only represent 2% of
Everything l’ve ever thought in my entire life,
I’m grateful I have such a good long-term memory!
It holds all my golds.
It’s there for keeps,
It’s there for life,
It’s my closest and dearest friend,
A friend who’s loyal til the end.
Or unless Dementia or Paranoia steal all my friends.

IT’S CRUDE & RUDE, BUT THE TITLE IS “A JISM OF ISMS”


I used to feel so old and crushed,
As if my voice had turned to rust,
Killed off by the carelessly carefree
Indifference of my “Stage-of-Life” and “Where-in-Life Irrelevance.
Then one day, I was thrilled to uncover, find and discover
A little-known fact:
We’re actually DESIGNED for Obsolescence!
Now it all makes sense!
I’ve since exchanged my Personal Angst for Existential Angst,
And NOW I am simply relieved
By the very simple act of
Simply-Wearing-Black
And putting on a “Fuck-You” and “Fuck Everything”
Apathetic Act!
This technique provides,
The path which unhides
The requisite relief to
Cope, ease, and qualm me,
Unquease and calm me,
At least Personally and Existentially,
Or until I’m okay to exist for
Yet another useless day!
Where? Anywhere but especially HERE!!
In This Giant Hellhole
Called “Life”,
Filled-to-Ugly with Spite,
Covered in Wretched Disdain,
Coaxed-into-Putrid-Shades-of-Putrefied-Hate.

Oops, hold up and wait! Please wait!!
Did I confuse Nihilism with End-Game-Fruitless-Fatalism, Dystopian Fantasy, Hormonal Fluctuations, and/or Garden Variety Grouchy Pessimism?
I probably did!
In fact, I’m convinced.
It’s always been transparent
And clearly-for-all-to-see-apparent:
The only Ism I am
Or am even acquainted with
Is a very quaint anachronism.

(And No, “sarcasm” is an “asm”, not an “ism,”
But if we’re going to speak of “isms” and “asms,”
Why stop here?).

A LOVER, NOT A FIGHTER


I gift Myself on a silver platter,
Tied up in a fancy bow;
I promise to love you with
My Parts Above
And show you with
My Parts Below.
But if and once the flirting
And playful un-skirting stops,
And what remains is a
Self-elevated mound of slop
Whose touch now feels
Like a Dirty Mop,
I’m grateful to the point of pain
I’m a High-Giver, High-Risker,
High-Lover, and Mutual-Taker,
Not a Low-Giver, Low-Risker,
Scarce Lover, and High-Taker.
The latter soup is a selfishly bitter, tasteless combination
Which only causes full-body vexation,
But NEVER a case of the shivers.
So Here’s the truth I’d swear is true:
Girls DO like spice,
But Guys: TREAT THEM NICE!
Or you’ll soon find you’ve lost
Your chance to dance
With your own
Quakes and Quivers.

P.S. I’m sincerely sorry to resort to binary terms, but I grew up in a binary world and it’s what I know. So please forgive my pronouns, he-nouns. she-nouns, and they-nouns.

POETROPHY


Forgive me if I’m repeating myself, but I’m convinced
My brain is at the perfect stage of Atrophy for Poetry;
I remember long-lost words but can’t remember how to spell them,
Yet surprise! Nobody cares anyway or anymore!
You get to make up your OWN rules as you go!
For these and other reasons I’ve long-since sacrificed to Short-Term or Repressed Memory,
Whichever is the “going theory” and correct terminology these days,
I consider Myself the Pen’s Ultimate, Pluperfect Poetista for the Present Tense!

ANY AGE WILL DO


ANY AGE WILL DO

Some are convinced I was an exceptionally adorable child.
Some are more smitten the older I’m gettin.’
As for me, I find I’m gracious, outrageous, shallow, gifted, mature, childish, and unpredictable at ANY AGE.

So who cares?

DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO CALL IT

I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO CALL IT

It certainly wasn’t love.
It wasn’t even friendship.
I don’t know WHAT it was… perhaps some of the younger ladies could help me understand?
I think it was a giant bunch of nothing, and I have no idea why, but I allowed this giant bunch of nothing to distract me for an inordinate period of time.
However much time it was, you can rest assured the interval was inordinate!
Because he wasn’t even worthy of distraction, so clearly I must’ve been in love with myself the entire time?
In this pseudo-ship of a pseudo-shit that I just survived?
The only residual problem might be…

I think I made a TOTAL ass of myself over this Big Lug of Nothing.
As in: got the emotionally embarrassing equivalent of “sloppy wet drunk,”
highly-hormonal, possibly puberty-level of embarrassment,
Only compounded by the significance I placed on something of such Apparently-Obvious Insignificance which wasn’t Significantly Obvious to ME!

So, I don’t know, Girls and Boys:
What DO you call “IT” when you act like a Mindless, Stupid Twit over a Useless Heap of Shit these days?

SEX INVESTIGATION: MOTIVES

SEX INVESTIGATION: MOTIVES

I’m definitely not an objective expert on matters of Human Sexuality, but my numerous years of being a Human myself have led me to a few observations.

Maybe I’ll address them in future posts, but I’ll confine this to the One Screaming Loudest:

I’ve discovered RECENTLY that many people seek sex for RELIEF rather than for JOY. I’ll gladly stipulate to “belatedly” on all counts of Said Observation, but it doesn’t alter its actuality, factuality, or potential falsity.

Perhaps the Truth of the Matter is blown out of perspective by first-person spectating, but I STILL don’t believe Those In Search of Sextasy can find it with people whose sole pursuit is Relief (though Relievers usually aren’t so picky).

I think two people have to at least be open to the opportunity of JOY for there to be any chance of finding any made mutually. The good news is: Once Joy is secured, Relief is easily obtained.

If this seems like Obvious Logic, trust me, there’s nothing obvious about social mores today!

I don’t know when collective standards changed, but they most certainly and drastically have! I can’t even tell you what they’ve changed INTO, and in the absence of external input, the same goes for the Accepted WHY. In fact, things are SO GRAY out there, I’M LOST!! I need help!! I’m begging for it!

Please know I’m NOT saying ALL Change is Bad. How could Change EVER be bad??!! Change-for-higher-purposes is one of humanity’s greatest virtues.

I’m just asking for a copy of The Rules.

WHEN WAS IT?


WHEN WAS IT?

If I knew there’d come a Day I’d need a Pretty Face to have a Voice, I would have spoken up sooner!

*Let’s call this Reason #632 Why I enjoy basking in the flattering glow of a Snapchat filter.

FOR THE “PURE WRITERS:” Why I Happen to Like My Pure Videos

Why I like My Snapchat Videos:
They Showcase a Lifetime of Experience

According to my acquired belief system, these videos possess many virtues and capitalize on a Lifetime’s Wealth of Experience.

Their virtue begins prior to my birth with The Invention of The Photograph and the Resultant Cliché that “A picture speaks a thousand words.”

They’re able to make beauty from the ashes of my many Wasted Years as a Wife AND in Chemistry and Algebra to Fail to Recognize a formula for success, even if it equates!

Regardless of my track record, I feel in my gut these videos marry the Dramatic Flair I FIRST began at the onset of puberty with my Ability to Phrase My Words Poetically…

Honed during my years as a writer to Think Poetically In The First Place!

The end result should be POTENT DRAMA, wryly age-fermented into one self-effacing, surprisingly-impactful, socially-irresponsible yet hopefully still-entertaining multimedia of a cyberbyte.

When that inevitably fails like all my prior marriages, I find myself paying a premium to My IPhone Memory Plan and resorting to my inherent Gift of Gab, videotaping 100% of Everything I blab about for hours. I then rely on my Natural Aesthetic to Recognize The 1% that’s salvageable and ultimately return to my aptly-titled B.S. degree in Radio-TV-Film to Edit The Useless Footage Down, hopefully quasi-coherently.

Of course, I never forget to swing by my long-term, prestigious highschool-memory banks to Cleverly Spin and Repackage this mere fraction of useless chatter about Everything into “Much Ado About Nothing.”

I hope you find them entertaining, too. Frankly, they’re easier to make than the poems, and I’d appreciate the harmless self-promotion.

A CALL TO ARMS

MY TEAM OF HOMIES ARE BONY

A CALL TO ARMS

I heard Jennifer Lopez is running her mouth and talking smack about us skinny bitches again.

If those zaftig bitches don’t stop shooting trash out of BOTH sides of their pretty gobs, we’e gonna have some serious West-Side-Story hand-to-hand street action.

Any DAY now.

A Great Face is Hard to Fake


No amount of time
Can stake a claim,
Claim to waste,
Or attempt to erase
A truly great,
Greatly True face.

To even acquire One
Requires EXTRA time
To build and bake,
Then disgrace
Into The Greatest
Of All Faces.

It’s The Last Act
That’s halfway Gracious,
So Accept it,
Don’t disdain it, and

Shine for the Sake of
ALL That’s Beautiful
Inside AND Outside of
Impossibly Gorgeously
Beautiful You.

Don’t worry, I’ll gladly
Shine with you; will YOU
Be Chance-of-Shining
With US TWO, too?

The latest and greatest of
Good News globally for you is:


“You no longer have to await
The Sun’s Return
Before allowing
Your OWN baby rays
To blaze reflectly through.”

Even a shadowy glimpse of my skeleton’s bared-toothy grin darkly deflected back at me in the middle of the night has glared me into a terrified, startled response.

The Tragic Life of a Leaf 🍃 🍁


The Tragic Life of a Leaf

You start out green and new, as a brand new shoot, nurtured by a Loving Mother Tree, and surrounded by lush, growing sibling leaves all
In relative, naive Harmony.
You mature and grow into The Most Beautiful Version of Yourself, peaking a little too early, given the length of your Life Cycle.

After you’ve served Your Purpose (you were never told what it was), your kindly mother turns on you;
Once she nurtured you, watered you, and warmed you by sunlight.
You were whole and thriving and complete.
Now, She cuts off these vital nutrients.
All of a sudden, you’re given no light, no food, no water.
And no answers about WHY.
Your sibling leaves are going through a similar situation,
So they are of very little use to you.
Frankly, they’re every bit as confused as you.
You slowly starve and dry up until you’re officially “desiccated.”
Then, the Mother Tree drops you.
The winds of change blow you onto a completely random path,
forcing you to intermingle with leaves you don’t even know,
Making one last splash as “fall foliage,”
Which you don’t even enjoy because you look so differently than you did in your prime , you barely recognize yourself anymore.

The next thing you know, you’re 5 miles down the road, in a Stranger’s yard (not even a nice one),
Being raked into giant piles and stuffed into suffocating black garbage bags,
Kicked to the curb to ferment a little while, and then
Carted off by some rather grubby-looking men to be burned and cremated.

By that point, you welcome it.

AN AGING FADE IS EASY TO FAKE

To Whomever says “Aging Sucks”,
I offer a flimsy rebuttal:
If you should find from clouds You hide,
Raining your Droplets of Pain
Into significantly-pesky puddles;
The older you are
The more vexed and perplexed
You can pretend and play.
“Minds in a muddle”
Are easily faked
And of minimal Trouble.
Truly, the sole choice of Sense
For those Plagued-by-Age
Is to slap on a sign screaming “Ignorance.”

POETRY BY AGE ISN’T POETRY BY NUMBERS


POETRY BY AGE ISN’T POETRY BY NUMBERS

I decided what separates
The poems of the Young
From the poems of the Old
Isn’t the song sung nor story told;
Rather it’s down to The Style
Which captures a Frown or a Smile.

Do You prefer to mentally copulate
With the first prick of fresh heartache,
Or do you prefer the dejection,
Pain and unspared despair
Of often brutally-inflicted
Repeat Rejection?

It’s simply a matter of taste.
A Choice doesn’t have to be made.
We can Break your heart Either Way.

The Ocean’s Motion 🌶

Regarding The “Economy Package”

I’m looking for a scientist
who’s mad enough
to clearly grasp this
crazed and crazy concept:

The tiniest of a SKILLFUL micro-stimuli,
With a little effort can provoke
A most magnificent physical response
(I’ve learned this more than once),
As well as ALL shades of
Macro-Sexual Reply
Which Profoundly (and to be honest),
Very-Physically still
Stimulate, Alliterate, add Satisfy,
While even juggling the time
To Speak in Rhyme
(Let’s call it “The Special Trick
That Works Every Time”).