Missed

Missed the mark,
Preaches about next times.
Preaches about cancer, then dies.
Precious past, pokes holes in history
Lessons, lived
Played out,
Loudly.
Played out fondly.
Played out proudly.
Crisp new high tops,
Trudges through each day,
Trudges through defining shame
Trudges through same old pain,
Expects new results,
Exceptions to the rule.
Thought I knew you.
Thought I knew who.
Thought I knew how.
Thought I knew where.
Where’s the how come,
Who wins the stare downs?
Who sings to the confessional booth?
Who counts on the save face?
Who owns hush nows?
You just missed the mark,
Maybe next time,
Or maybe the next, next time
Or the next, next, next time.
Or maybe you just weren’t meant
To shine, not in this lifetime.
In this lifetime.
Lifetime.
A life’s time.
A time
In this body,
I am stuck with.
In this body,
That shrinks around the
Cancer that eats me.
And I listen, as it grows.
The art of self-disclosure comes close.
She doesn’t instruct,
She doesn’t destruct,
She doesn’t demand
She commands
Picks fights,
Opposed to freeze
Opposed to ‘Fuck yous’
Opposed to conquering you.
Contrary to your beliefs,
Relief rides in on a white horse,
Smack, the wild horse.
Smack, your whores.
Smack, her ass
Face down
Addicted since birth
Addicted to vices versus virtues.
Addicted to personality traits
Addicted to destroying
Creative shared space.
Addicted to the missed marks.
Missed the mark.
Missed the heart.
Missed the ambition.
Missed the moxie.
Missed the challenge.
Missed the connection,
Missed the me,
In this sea of
Everybody wants to win.
Every body wants in.
Every body, except-
Exceptions to the rule,
Exceptions keep killing you.
Accepting this can kill you.
Accepting this missed mark.
Accepting the body with the cancer,
That eats it.
Eat it.
Accept it.
Except it.
Missed it.
That mark.

2 more treatments.

it’s been over 423 days since my last intimate/romantic/sexual encounter…i quit counting at 423, add like 6 months to that. i think this is adding to my increased stress levels.

it’s been over 63 days since i was “a smoker”, i really want a cigarette-but i don’t. i enjoy being smoke free-but then stress and i simply like smoking.

it’s been over 210 days since my last real vacation.

it been almost 365 days since my baby died.

it’s been…it’s been stupid, everything is stressful. i don’t even nap. i cannot sleep. i hate poetry.

i can’t maintain a relationship.
i don’t even talk to any of my friends.
i am the reason we can’t have nice things…i am also very dramatic.

two more cancer treatments till the surgery. lame.

PHI-101-002

video loading…
holding my attention
despite my contempt,
not at the teacher,
so much as the subject.
questioning my own intentions
define? pick your poison
course chosen,
basket the burden
of learning,
at this stage.
at this age-wait,
should i be settled?
maybe take this
alone, from home
in the evening,
as the kids play?
oh, well
path taken
truth tables, and
i am
still
lying
to myself.
career on the shelf-
flustered, this isn’t a class
this is a life lesson.
shove your exams,
i’ve completed each exercise…
twice!
just grade my persistence.
resolved to sit at the back table
and i am still unable-
to focus (“like a laser beam”).
so unlike me.
am i a fool?
too stupid to understand
a course in logic at this school?
“it’s just an intro”,
he says-
introduction to my own personal hell.
discovering deeper level
malfunctions,
this shit is deconstructing me
maybe it is just-wait!
here,
let me see your office hours,
we can
re-exam-ine
my need
for help.
i just don’t get this.
dismiss instruction
execution all wrong,
strategy lacking?
but wait?
why?
i live off of fallacies!
on fallacies,
raised by wolves who
created half of these.
my reasoning is unreasonable.
making no sense
what is all of this?
-read it in my tone,
avoid eye contact-
and stick to the text book,
hooked on herrick
and his resource page-
yes, find that after you google his
face-oh, yeah
piazza works great.
skipped a blind date
to
study-
what the fuck was the exam on again?
walking you
through my semester-more like
reliving
my most recent disaster.
a challenge?
a challenge has an end!
this is just the beginning.
and
i am
unwilling
to accept what i’ve earned.
burned holes,
created blind spots
reading
and rereading
threads and rules,
laws and infractions
history and accounts-the footnotes
corrected you, by the way-
it was greece, not rome,
thought about it?
it haunted me, on all my drives home!
searching for connections,
all missed.
when will i get this?
help me.
make it click.
stick, residual
where is it?
can i excuse my lack of ability?-
always more heart than head,
a handful of i-don’t-knows
refresh the page,
and press play,
again…video loading,
this is still holding
my fucking attention.
okay logic…you win.

*You’ll have to forgive me, this is meant to be Spoken, not so much read-hence the “read it in my tone, avoid eye contact”-this might come across as talkin shit and doggin out my instructor, but it’s the highest compliment I can possibly give to the course, the semester, this teacher-biggest challenge I’ve had-that’s taken my mind off of the baby dying and the cancer. I love a challenge-it’s strange, the smallest decisions we make can have the biggest impacts on our lives, or future courses of action-and I think in our daily hustle and bustle we just forget that, at least I did.

A Poem about Penis

dear men,
as you wear your jeans,
in front of me
i check to see
how big your package might be.

sometimes i start from the inseam,
fabric pulling and stretching
(pause to bite my bottom lip).
imagine teeth across the YKK
on your zipper.

you, at the edge of your bed
pulling them off
struggling with-
are you
a grower or a shower,
inches turn to miles
of distractions.

objectify you,
categorize you,
outlined in soft denim,
adjusts as you move.
impressions of you,
tug at my imagination.

hard things,
pressed against
double stitched inseams,
want things,
erect.

at attention,
it’s not my intention
to make you feel
less than you’re worth
lick my lips, bat my lashes
at your impressive package.
bet you’re above average
girth must be worth
trying to guess your measurements.

i can’t stress this (enough);
the silhouette of your package
looks fantastic,
even flaccid.
dear men,
chinos, dockers, dark wash
loose fit, dig your hands down
into your pockets.
i wrote this at a bar on a napkin.
he talked to my breasts,
as i shot down offers to undress-totally lost track of where i was going, besides home, alone.

i think i was accused of lusting after someone this week…maybe i have been? i don’t even know anymore.

Breasts

made a girl into a woman,
at first you tried to wrap them,
tight against your rib cage
hoping no one would notice
your tiny tits at this awkward stage.
run faster,
nothing will catch up.
you held your chest,
exploring
the heaviness of your
budding breasts,
fingertips fumbled over
pink perky nipples,
rosy and round.
same body, new ground.
before you aged into yourself,
they caused you much distress.
you’ve covered them,
hidden them beneath dingy dress
shame has flushed your cheeks,
stopped playing on the block,
when they couldn’t cover their
excitement at your expense.
run faster,
no one will catch up.
they sit like trophies,
hard and full, erect with cold
all grown-up face full of grace.
sometimes, when someone
brushes by, rushes by,
they see lust where you
placed love.
dropped to knees,
mistaken cries of faith
for acts of
sleaze.
keep running,
none of them will catch up.
to you, this is crazy.
to them, you’re just baiting
batting lashes,
fighting tears.
perfect and proud,
shoulders back,
luscious,
and full…
full of what?
full of life, and
the breasts that fill your bra
the nipples, that press against
your palms.
hard and erect, they brush against
the inside of your shirt.
beautiful, full breasts,
adorn your lovely chest.
a lover’s touch.
a gentle reminder of your
coming time of the month.
stop running…
you’re meant for this,
they’re meant for you.
years come and go,
mammary glands,
men’s hands,
a woman’s touch,
self-exams,
doctor’s doors,
bikini tops,
stops and stares,
i see you in there.
stop running,
you’ve got to let them catch up.
tiny tits, silver dollar nipples,
every size, fits us all.
short, skinny, round, and tall,
just a handful,
some have more,
some have none.
since you’ve grown up
they’ve been used against you,
bruised and pinched,
in disgust and in love,
some have confused the two.
but not you, you’ve embraced
your name.
all woman,
without shame.
you’ve come to see,
they don’t define
who you’ll be,
just enhance
your natural beauty.

October or not, check your beautiful breasts. Self-exams and annuals, breast cancer is the most common cancer among American women.
this site has more information:

http://m.cancer.org/

IMG_8096.PNG
photo source: https://mentone-educational.com.au/

Ezel

forgot why i started coming here…
can’t remember the details,
the color of his eyes
what life might’ve been like.
birthed and lost,
but not forgotten.
so long ago, placed on a shelf.
collecting dust, as if they belong
to someone else.
accused of writing poems
about about love,
it’s a lot like love.
we’re a lot like love,
something to get used to.
withered and worn,
sometimes before we’re even born.
broken and mistaken for something
less than we’re worth.
what’s my worth?
a paper?
am i a piece, of ass?
a moment
an event
a degree
a title
without body, what’s my worth?
i forgot what i’m worth,
i pay to attend someone else’s
life lessons, they pretend they’re better men.
better men don’t look like them.
better men look like
nothing,
six feet below and rotting
better men look like
the women they honor…
the women they’ve loved and lost.
i forgot why
i started coming here
to find something,
someone who lost me,
someone i’ve lost.
placed on a shelf, collecting dust.

searching

i was looking for help,
looking through piles of
self
lesser men came to the rescue.
searching for help,
stretching myself.
boundaries,
i have set.
did not set me.
feelings i have felt,
crossed boundaries set
thin lines, crossing areas,
gray in color.
i was looking for help,
searching for self.
accused of wanting more-
accused of wanting what?
what’s the help for?
what is help?
i was searching
lesser men came to my aid.
full of self, they’ve been full of self,
none like he, himself.
searching for nothing,
but fucking help.