The Chicken or the Egg

Sometimes I wonder which came first

The faith or the religion

The cause or the fight

The criminal or the cop

The rape or the apathy

 

Sometimes I wonder which came first

The chicken or the egg

And could one exist without the other

Because I, for one, would be happy

To spend the rest of my life eating beef.

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Mud

I plant my feet in the thick brown earthen paint.

I feel it seep in between my toes.

I feel good for a little while.

Then the thick layer hardens and grows heavy.

It’s natural; crystalline.

And some even say it has the power to heal yet I grow ill

Tempered with time I become dirty.

Take it back to basics and it’s just dirt and water.

Put it in a tile lined tub next to seaweed raps and sugar scrubs

Does it somehow become less unclean?

To the Guy Making Kissy Faces in the Parking Lot

envelope

Dear Kissy Face,

 

I reject your proposal.

I will not smile and nod and pretend that its cute.

It isn’t. We both know you aren’t really interested in me.

You want me the way a five year old wants

the sparkly red heels in the thrift store window.

She knows they won’t fit and only in the mind

of that five year old can she wear them with anything.

I don’t want you either.

The man of my dreams won’t whistle at me across a parking lot or

blow kissy faces at me from a moving car.

The man of my dreams will speak to me.

He will say actual words. Maybe

they will come in the form of a cheesy pick-up line

or maybe it will be a simple Hello.

Either way he isn’t you.

So please understand when I say that I am not rolling my eyes at you.

I am rolling my eyes at a world that thinks that

these few wasted seconds are anything other than rude.

 

Sincerely,

The girl who is done playing along.

Bullet Proof

bulletproof.jpg

I want to be bullet proof glass…

Multiple individual and separate

Sheets clear in the picture they present,

None obscuring the other yet

Together they provide a single

frame obvious in its clarity.

Tear Away

tearaway.jpgI have never identified with something

as well as I do the spiral notebook in your hands.

The words, I haven’t read them enough

to know them by heart, but I can see the words

you erased when they were no longer right.

And I can see the phrases you crossed out

in haste because they never really worked.

Maybe it will take two hours, two weeks,

Or two years, but one day that wide-ruled

Sheet of paper with the perforated edge

Will wind up crumpled at the bottom

Of the bin, and I will never be the same.