Take Care Of Each Other

"Take Care Of Each Other"  - Seen On A NYC Protester Sign for #Ferguson

I unfriended someone on Facebook today.  They were complaining about the protesting in their state so far away from Ferguson, Missouri.

Some of their friends commented we should just shoot the "animals" and  save money.  I could have commented.  I could have posted directly to her but I had determined this morning, I would not 'argue' on Facebook, where people are very different than they are on Twitter.  On Twitter, people are really telling the 'true story' of Ferguson and injustice.  On Facebook, people are posting their relationship troubles and what they are having for lunch. I say this 'in light' - I know people are fine and can definitely post whatever they want and I liked several things today that had nothing to do with Ferguson.

I thought about my unfriending of this girl later and realized, "She's young, she doesn't understand." I am older.  I should be a female mentor to her.  She could be my daughter.  She doesn't realize the years of boiling over pain people of colour have had.  She doesn't realize the failure of America's government to protect its citizens.

Katrina.  Need I say more? Well, maybe I do. As it seems everyone wants to throw a blanket over Ferguson thinking it will just go away.

I am white.  I am Charlie Brown white.  Much like Darren Wilson.  You know, white with ruby red cheeks from a little friction or when it gets cold?

I have black family.  I have black friends.  For thirty or more years,  I have seen up close and personal the prejudice and racism black people endure on a daily basis.  The people who do not believe there is still prejudice or racism are wrong.

I feel like I should at least say something.  Because I am white.  And I think it's going to take a lot of white people to take care of our black people.  There's going to have to be states upon states marching, protesting, doing 'die-ins' - with thousands of white people.  We must take care of each other, just like the protester's sign in New York said.

Last time I made a post or comment about this type of thing was about Zimmerman and one person hit 'like' on it.   I don't care.  I am old enough now that it matters not who agrees with me or stands with me.  That is the positive thing about being older.  Also, as time goes on, you realize if you don't stand for something, you will fall for anything.

If you can't understand what is going on, then you aren't paying attention.  If you are worried about looters taking laptops, televisions and making your comments about "How is that helping anything?" perhaps you need to understand what riots are all about.  What protests are all about.  Change.  Showing the rage, anger, and even the raw emotion of hate of how things are, how the world is.  If the murder of a teenager is not as important to you as a laptop, then you need to "check your privilege," as they say.

You have white men in government in America who have looted from all of us far more than what a few businesses have lost.

This was an INDICTMENT not a jury trial.  Grand Jury's indict in 10,999 of 11,000 cases brought before them.  So, here's one they didn't.  And we are just suppose to 'feel' that all is fine and everything is okay because this Grand Jury didn't think this case could have went to a jury trial. 12 jurors, 9 white, 3 black.  9 members needed for an indictment.  Do the math.

Let me point out a few things that I am not sure everyone has heard.  Many people watch riots and do not understand the reason the riot is happening.

Officer was 6'4 - everyone made it seem like he was just a little guy and was up against this "elephant gorilla of a demon of a hulk superhero." Officer shoots 12 bullets.  Leaving only one bullet in the chamber.  Officer takes six weeks to write a report, giving himself plenty of time to "fill - in" information and change things to his own department's 'training' (if that's what you want to call it.)

The officer originally came from a department that had to be disbanded because of racism.

There was no need for lethal force in this case.  The murder victim was unarmed.  Police departments need to train their officers better if it takes 12 bullets to arrest someone for stealing some cigars.  Is there anything police departments are given other than a gun to take someone down with?  Yes. Tasers, batons, mace, handcuffs and so on.  Law enforcement are suppose to be trained in disabling with pressure points.  If you are in 'close' proximity with someone you can squeeze near their neck/shoulder that will literally bring them down.

Announcement of the 'no bill' is given at 8PM when it could have been made at 8am the following day.  Or at noon when the grand jury actually finished meeting. Why?  Because the "prosecutor friend" (Since when have you seen a prosecutor so happy for not winning!) of the officer wanted to see property destroyed in Ferguson.  This was obviously planned.  He could have cared less.  Along with the Governor of Missouri who 'deployed' approx. 700 National Guard but wouldn't even pick up his telephone when the Mayor of Ferguson called him all night and has not spoke to him since August.  The National Guard on the original night was sent 'behind the scenes' they said.  Behind the scenes to them means "protecting property in wealthier, more white areas." If the National Guard was standing guard at a Ferguson Hair Salon or the local pizza/antique shop or a car parts store, you can believe there would have been no fires.

Everyone wants to complain about property damage/values but whenever white kids have bonfires and blow up things after a sports events, it's no big deal.  Looting and fires started when no one was out there.  The police must have planned to leave those 15 buildings that burned unmanned and unprotected.  It's much like a protester said, "Y'all shoulda seen this coming."  How in the world were there people who have degrees and 'smart' positions not aware something like this would happen?

Someone in government positions needs to be held accountable.

No one wants to put police on trial.  They watch CNN and think they have all the information.  You find out more information on Twitter than you do on any of the news channels.  Police need to be put on trial.  Last night, Amnesty International representatives were there and peaceful protesters were there.  There was designated 'safe areas' however, a church (safe house) was raided and a coffeehouse and this church in Shaw were tear gassed.  Peaceful protesters were called to come out with hands up, threatened with mass arrest, yet, those exits were gassed and people had to hide in the basement.

They were told in advance this would be a 'safe' area. Then gassed.  Put yourself in their position.

Which brings me to protesting and our Constitution.  I may be wrong and I'm sure someone will let me know but I do not recall there being something written in the First Amendment that we need permits and need to protest in certain areas.  I'm sure it has something to do with each state.  If you want to protest in the street, you should be able to do it.  If you want to walk down a tunnel, interstate, bridge and block traffic and you have enough people in your march to do that, then do it. This is America.  People died for your right to protest and walk down any street you want to while you are doing it.

Being arrested for standing up for your beliefs would be an honour.  Civil disobedience.  Some people know that.

I'm grateful for the over 100 protests tonight.  I'm thrilled to see it.  Continue.  Shut down Time Square.  It's wonderful to see.  It proves some people know what is going on.  Hopefully the media will continue to show these protests, and interview the protesters.  I don't care how much property is lost to looters.  I care about people speaking about the value of human life.

Finally, I want to remind some serious infractions of ethical and moral and legal matters.  Firstly, the dead body of Michael Brown was left out on the street for four and a half hours.  Imagine that being your son, your brother, your friend.  It's immoral, it's sick.  It's disrespectful.  Made me laugh when our President said we had to 'respect' the decision.  I don't.  I find it totally unacceptable and irresponsible to treat a human body like that.  That isn't suppose to happen in America.  If you think it is, then you need to get in touch with your heart again.

Secondly, pictures and measurements were not taken because batteries in camera ran out.  I can find batteries within ten minutes anywhere I am at, but obviously in Ferguson you can't.  Maybe that Family Dollar or Dollar Tree didn't have them?  I doubt it.  Lazy behaviour in the case of a murder while a body is laying out for all that time.  Measurements not taken because 'not needed.'

A juror admitted when autopsy hadn't arrived by Friday that they did not need to see it to make decision.

That is illegal.

I am sure people in other countries who have police who don't even carry guns !!! YES !!! (amazing, huh?) or who allow protestors on the street to do what they want and when they want to make their voices heard, are shaking their head at America and what a joke we are.

To this, I'm sure every redneck would say, "If you don't like it, get out."

FIND YOUR BEST SELF, PEOPLE!

There's something to stand up for here, there's something to hold up to the light to examine.  And it's time to take care of each other.

wendy's street

Wendy's Street #fotobyaladreth

Wendy's Street
copyright 2014, @aladreth



i dream chromium retrograde,
ladies licking tips of paintbrushes,
testing malina,
which would be the name
of a sprite,

i sit, digress, spellwork,
watch with water,

sober, and i'm not sure
why,
except,
the universe has commanded it
to save a life

i asked him if i saved his; and why did we meet?
~is all i have said and done,
a purpose,

there be a big screen review,
"you did not get sex
because God's plan was only for you to
save the man getting the divorce, but not
for your pleasure...

that night, and the next night and the
next year, all you wanted was sex, what a
selfish, selfish girl."

then peter would point, 'if you only knew
the lives you had saved! by being
celibate!'

oh, fuck off, peter

this runs in just-a-poe to
everything of a goddess,
all nature, magical practice,

      me, losing mystical conscience

                                                           follow dragonfly eyes

he says to me,
'what you did tonight, cannot be commended
enough'

but then within a minute, i listen to the voicemail

the voicemail
reminds me,
i am a deceiver who will set a place on fire
and hide the evidence of the burn

no matter it be sweet jam or full blown petrol
this 'you are so great' barters with 'you
are a liar'

exchange or hang
go deeper inside

i cover over with my own obsessions,
so it neutralizes,
brings into itself something
of a joke,
a little piece of family,
fatalfamilial? fatafamiliar?

"get in my car"

"sure"

that was easy,
too easy?

no, because she's drunk,

smiling, loud, happy,
someone just paid for her meal...

strangers who look very poor paid, $20.47
so this is the least i can do,

call it an adventure,
just get her out from behind the wheel of her car
where she sits looking, searching for keys,
and laughing

i tell her, lock it up, leave it,
bring your purse,
scattered kleenex,

she offers me alcohol,
once, twice, three times,
water bottles and flasks,
baggies of
stuff,

how much shite can you get in that purse?
but, i apologize for my car being filthy,

worry it may get filthier, she may puke, then realize
she's a professional drinker and will not be ill

i give her words, words of healing
she may remember when sober,
but i doubt it,

what does it really matter?
she's not my wendy,
she's not the wendy,
the wendy that brought us together
with canned pineapple ads,
pretty hair, european magazines
and eyes so deep they caused sleep

disorders

(please don't let the crab make me sick,
i've done a good deed)

i drive back by her silver car,
to tell the place of business
it will be parked there all night
because she was too drunk to drive
they say, 'she only drank half of a margarita'
- i say, i know, you can't control what someone
brings in,

i am no saint
there are no stars in my crown,
even if he says i have earned 'another'

i walk a fine line

i tell her, 'tomorrow is a new day, you
can do whatever you want'

"progress, not perfection" ~ an old hazelden
motto i know from 30 years ago

'do you like music?'
i ask, hoping to change the subject,
which has been the same
with little stories woven into little stories,
"racism is bad,
people smoke weed,
i'm a horrible mother,
i have a warrant out for my arrest,
i'm an alcoholic,
i'm with my daughters grandfather,"

she has said all of it
and more

to the 40 year old little girl, i say
things i want someone to say to me,

'you aren't a bad person,
you are a sick person and you just need
to get well,
if you were a good girl,
you couldn't get good enough.

i know how
half priced margaritas can make you feel,

baby, i do'

fucking brilliant, i say, fucking brilliant,
in my best bad english accent

it's 30 miles of fucked-up-monsoon-road,
she is flirting with him,
telling him she likes quiet men,

they are strength,

telling him she would tear him up,
ride him hard and throw him away wet,

she is
trying
to give me high fives,
but they end up like slushy-half-fish-holds

please, don't you know?
i am worse off than you
look at you ...perfect body

he likes when i say, "look at you" during
those moments that landed that way

"that's the problem with you thiests," he says,

even if i were to tell him the
Queen of the Warrior Angel story -
the only thing i miss of crazy
he would still say it,

as he likes to say,
"your god"

i like to say,
"you're angel"

dontcha know
dontcha
scroll, scroll, saltwater bath

i am jealous,
i am lonely,
i want to scream at that woman,
he says he feels sorry for...
SEEN
SEEN
SEEN
I FUCKING (have) SEEN!

but, i know the truth,
really, i do

this whole time, i'm wondering, do you know the truth?
do you know who i am?
what i am?
you don't treat me like you do.

i roll the window down for her,
"look at that sunset, wendy"

later, as she gets out of the car, lock, unlock, stumble, boots, rocks, stumble, chain, lock, unlock, trip,

                                                "hey, girl, i'll call you tomorrow,"



wendy, you don't even have my phone number.
you don't even have my name.

Slippery Slope

Slippery Slope
@aladreth, copyright 2014

"Did you read my story?"
"I dare not for fear it is about me."


This is only a story.  Sure, there are true parts.  But mainly? Only a story.

There is a sexy, sassy Black girl on Facebook who has a group and she publishes these cheeky quips about sex in the form of jpegs.  There was one I will never forget.  It said something like, "If you ain't getting laid at least twice a week, your partner is getting it somewhere else."

I couldn't stop wondering about this.  Oh, how things become settled in our minds.

Reminded me of another saying I had found many, many years ago, I had also engraved in my head and heart.

"In every relationship there is one who loves more than the other one, and I'm that one."

Or something like that ... close enough.

I found that saying while snooping around at the office.

When everyone left for the day, I liked to snoop around in their desks and see what sort of things they had.

Angela kept pens that didn't work because they had some special meaning for her. I 'called' her on it one day and she got all offended. Freak.

Renee's desk looked like she was 40 going on 11.  She had little toys and pink princess shite everywhere.  She never grew up.

Karen's desk added to the rumours she was a lesbian.  She kept magazine cut outs of women in suggestive poses and especially Cindy Crawford.  She really liked Cindy.

Roberto's desk was the most interesting.  Roberto was cheating on his wife and kept all of the gifts his mistress gave him in the drawers on the right side of his desk and all the letters his wife wrote him on the left side.

She knew or suspected, I guess, because she wasn't getting laid twice a week.

According to the letters, she had not been laid by Roberto for five years.  In this case, Queen (the sexy, sassy Black girl from Facebook) was correct because Roberto was getting laid a lot.

Roberto couldn't fit all the gifts he received from his mistress in his desk, so very often, I would go home with plants and chocolate she had purchased him, tags removed.  He saved the tags in the drawers of his desk.

Sometimes I would get jealous of the things he would keep and not give me.  I'd ask him, "Why are you giving me THIS and not THAT?" He would chuckle and come up with a reason or two. I don't think he knew I looked in his desk.  He probably figured he had told me enough and I knew about the affair so why would I go in his desk.

Why would I. Why would I just.

Where I found that quote about one person loving more than the other person in a relationship was on the left side of Roberto's desk.  In a drawer, a long letter from his wife.  Sixteen pages to be exact.  Lots of handwritten pages, I'm sure some tear stained, rehashing their years together and how he had cheated before and how she had not been fucked in five years.  Lots of things about her kids and previous marriages and how he probably hit his first wife. (She said she knew but didn't tell.) Just lots of things I didn't really understand.

But, I understood when she said she was the one who loved more in the relationship and how she always was that person.

I guess, because I have been that person myself.

Even when men I've been with have argued they loved me more than I loved them, I would have to say under my breath, "You just don't know."

I held back with some because they would run screaming for the hills if they ever experienced it - but I've always loved more.

And more.

They call that 'complex.'  At least I've been called that before.  As an excuse for loving.  For loving more.

I met a fellow named Rudolph.  A seemingly common guy, we sat talking about all sorts of things.  Some I didn't care about at all; sports, war, politics, video games and so on, but there was enough I did care about that I listened and he was a good conversationalist and the coffee was nice.

As things progressed in our conversation, he shared with me he was celibate.  He had been celibate for ten years.  I looked at him very hard, when he told me.  He wasn't bad looking, he was a fit man, in his fifties, seemed well spoken, intelligent and had already told me he had a son and an ex wife and ex girlfriends, so I knew he had to have had sex at some point.

He went on to explain he had given a vow, taken an oath, with some metaphysical guru type gal, that he would never have sex again until he found love.

He said he would find love by next month.

Immediately, I put up a bubble, "Woah, buddy, back off, ain't no special reason we met! I'm with someone!"

Actually, I had to ponder it all because here is someone I've met basically off the street who is so totally opposite from me, that if he only knew, he'd be terrified at how sexual I had been compared to how faithful to his vow/oath he had been.

But, we don't talk about such things, do we?

Rudolph said, "I've not felt so calm in ages.  I was a ball of energy, so full of anger and rage and all I had to do was talk to you, my new found friend."  I laughed a little and told him it was sweet for him to say because normally I didn't calm anyone down.  I normally got them so wound up and so hyper like myself - bouncing off walls, they couldn't stand themselves, let alone me.

How weird he thought I was calming and peaceful.  Not sure if anyone had ever thought that about me. Ever. I wanted to be, though, I really wanted to be.

Also, what I really wanted, was to say, "Man, how the fuck can you stand not having sex?  How can you go without it?"

He must be one huge ball of something? Electric? Or does one go out of practice? Is it like one of my favourite authors alludes to?  "Sex is a talent." Are people born with the talent?  Do you have to work at it?  Does practice make perfect?

I really wanted to say, 'MY GOD, dude, TEN YEARS? YOU AREN'T A PRIEST!' (I've always disagreed priests should be celibate. Silly rule-thing, if you ask me.)

Sex is God-created.  One thing He 'set up' - The bible even indicates the sexual bed is where freedom happens and you can do all you could ever imagine, anything you could ever think of when you give yourself to your partner and they give themselves to you.

They don't tell you that in church.  They seldom tell what the bible says in church.

Sex is like food and water.  How can anyone go without it?

Sex is definitely Goddess-given.  It is magical.  Sex creates healing and perfection in humanity. There is no such thing as 'bad sex.'

Oh, well, here I go again, on my soap box. Slippery slope. Pardon the sexual pun.

I remember a dream I had of the man I love.  He has a sports car and he rented a red one when he visited me.  A red convertible to drive down Route 66.  One of the days he visited I was upset about a newspaper article I had written being totally changed and important parts being left out.  We were sitting in his rented sports car at the County Fairgrounds and he tilted in the leather seat and pulled his wallet out and took a piece of paper from it. He unfolded it and there was the original proof of that very newspaper article I had been speaking about.  The way I had originally written it before they had got ahold of it and fucked it up. My Corrigan.  He had it.  I said, "I think I am in love with you," and put my head on his shoulder.

Later, I woke him up at 5am in the morning to fuck him and I said over and over again, "I think I am in love with you, I think I am in love with you."

Think? Know. Hell, everyone knows I love him.  I do love him.  I am in love with him.  But, it was a nice dream.  A nice scene.  Somewhere they say that dreams are more real than our everyday life. Especially when we dream of someone we love.  That love is perfection in our dreams.

My car broke down today.  It overheated in the upper parking lot of a car parts store.  Convenient, you would say, but it just left men conversing over what was wrong with it, what had gone out and then me wondering who would be the one to fix it.  Who would take care of it.  Would any of them? Would one step up to help? I'm still that princess, (only in my head, I look nothing like a princess!) thinking the knight in white shining armour will arrive one day to fix the car. Fix the house, the properties.  Fix my mother. Fix me.

I just left.  I went for a walk.  I ended up in Jack's neighborhood.  He's one of my exes. I didn't go there for any reason. Truthfully, I forgot he lived near the lake.  Some lady keeps baby lambs near there and I wanted to see them hopping around and watch the sunset over the lake while the men bickered over my car a few blocks away.

Jack's mother saw me and said, "Oh, Jack is so glad you have come by."  I said, "He isn't.  You must know, he doesn't care about me, he'd be happy if anyone came by. It was never about me, Ma'am, not at all."

She needed to know, it had been a few years and she just needed to know. She still had this fantasy in her head that was not true.  Jack didn't care about me one iota.

Jack came out of the house and stood at least ten feet away from me watching the sunset.  Jack, who I had made love to every single day for 13 months, Jack who knew every damn thing there was to know about me, and he couldn't even come close enough to me to watch the sunset together.

I said, "Come over here." I knew he couldn't see the way the sun danced pink sparkles on the lake from where he was standing, I just knew it.

When he came to stand next to me, I reached out to hug him.  It was the first time we had spoke, let alone touched in a very, very long time.  Well, I spoke.  He did not speak.  He did not say one word. I felt his body shudder, he, so much taller, so much thinner than myself, was he shaking with a tear? Did he finally realize? That he had hurt me?  That I had hurt him?  It felt like it was a tear, a held-in cry that had made him tremble.

I did not know anything except that shudder.  That shake.  He would not speak. I did not ask.  One hug and then back to the way it had been.  Nothing.

All those days, all those nights in each others arms, experiencing every sexual pleasure you can imagine, knowing every romance anyone could wish for and now it was down to silence, shudder and a shake.

I could try to interpret it.  But, I just let it go.

One sunset and a hug.  I suppose it was closure?

I did not know.  I did not know anything.

This is Serious

This is Serious
copyright 2014 @aladreth

"It was the best interview of my life until they said they would rather hire a nun.  
Just being celibate was not enough." Overheard on "Adult Swim" 


You said you were leaving and I felt so much pain.
I'd be giving up on myself if I let you go.
I can't give up on myself.

the Septuagint adds a bit more on our tortured 'blessed' man, Job
(see what you learn in Theology?)

he will rise,
rise as some prophet, like Elijah,
to be hung in front of us all

Hello hope.

Also, vaya con dios to the Drama Prince Band
To escape the soldiers, take the phone,
make an investigation to get us out of here. (underline that last bit)

to follow a bird of flight
who turns to the water,
I am scratching to keep on the mountain,
nails digging in the dirt and green grass just planted
- no root taken

 like when I would play "King of the Hill."
I never made it. So, at dusk I would sneak
to the hill
and stand with arms stretched out, silently screaming,
"Fuck you fuckers, I'm King of the Hill."

the Emerald Isle one way and another place
just as pretty the other way

but not where you are

to follow and hide,
hiding and thieving,
a tall man somewhat brave,
at least more brave than myself,
"here's one for you,
one for me,"
he says, handing out rations.

and back at the motel - "I can't stay,
can I get my things?"
It's always past check-out time
and not all done
and every quarter that falls,
I imagine I will get everything done.
It will be this time.

The cab takes us to a town
where the roads go up and down.

I have not bathed in forgiveness in a long while
and I want everyone to accept me
anyway,
let me stay for fuck's sake,
let me stay.

But, would I be so kind?

Let me live long enough to touch you.

He is a leader, the tall man
so I follow, but he's no more clean than me.

His jeans look cleaner than mine
but he can't be through and through
- we are dragging toxic streets, pipes, artifacts.

he's like an Eagle Scout, quiet
with a sense of duty to me.
he knows I'm suffering my loss.

He knows also
I am an addict.
He pretends or maybe even ignores that fact.

And he just confidently leads.

Who is the tall man?
Could he be Jesus?
What if he kisses me on the lips?
Kisses me in the back of the cab
as he hands me a bite size Snickers candybar?

Really.
Would it be sacrilegious to be kissed
by my Jesus?
My own personal Jesus.

Tonight We Fly

Tonight We Fly
@aladreth
copyright 2014

I remember clearly the early evening he said to me, "Tonight we fly."  I trusted he was telling me the truth; that above the housetops we would see dogs barking below, the lovers strolling their last walk before bedding down together, and the last throw out by the old mother of compost to bin.

I believed we would fly and we would see the stars so clear we could touch them.

I fell for the raggedy haired boy.  He would argue about his hair. All of his features, really; for he was a trickster, a magician with the looks and so innocent seeming.  To tell someone you are shy and reserved does not make it so.  He knew what his charms were. He made me fall for him and I could not let go.

One day I confessed I was a thief.  He did not balk at the idea.  I repeated it, for I believed there were only two ways he would accept such absurdity.  Either he was a thief himself or he didn't really believe me.  He replied, "I heard you the first time.  I know you are a thief, silly girl, for you stole my heart."  So, he was cheeky.  He did not care, it seemed, that I was a morose snotty dragon sitting on my nest of shiny things in a lair in the basement. So, he passed a tiny test.  Then he passed a few more.  

He wrote out words of old ancient manuscripts on crisp blue paper and handed them to me for a present.  It was only paper.  But, he knew of my love for paper.  A compulsive hoarder of paper, I was.

With thick English accent he would say to me, "It took a lot of work printing that for you."  Like I should know of his love when he didn't say it.  Like I didn't need to be reminded with "I love you." Blue paper words would suffice.

He gave me Toni.  I did not tell him about her.  At first I teased, "Your twins were born," after he returned to England. Nine months later I had it planned to write him no matter, if we were still speaking or not, to tell him about the twin girls I had imagined and what I would name them.  He was angry when he received the mail. He told me he crumpled it up and threw it on a bonfire.  I knew he did not, but his words didn't hurt any less. 

I did not have twins.  It was only a joke.  Toni, however, was serious, I kept her secret and hidden from him because I would more than likely not raise her as reckless as he would have liked. 

I was going to raise her where she would not be hurt by her heart.  I was going to raise her where she was confident and self-assured, like he had believed me to be at the beginning when he first fell for me.  Then he learned I was like every other girl.  I had a heart as big as an ocean and could fit tons of little scraps of people in it.  All of a sudden I seemed vulnerable and weak and that is not what he signed up for.  

Toni would never be that way.  I didn't care what it took, but she would not be hurt by love.  

She would not remember every single male she had ever come in contact with, like I could rehearse in my brain decades of smiles, clever winks, and words.  Oh, the words.  

I threatened to raise her in an Amish community.  It didn't seem any of them were weak or wounded by their hearts.  But, I could not handle the dress.  I wanted her to grow up to be the head of a company, a CEO, not wear long dresses with her hair in a bun.   

I thought to raise her in a feminist commune.  I believed they would protect her, give her a healthy dose of hate for men.  Just enough so she would never believe she could fly.  Just enough to never fall for being held down and hypnotized by the gentle fingertip touch of a man.  Just enough so she would not be like her mother who loved men.

Instead, I used Toni as my little balm, a burn medication made from silver, a salve ...where she wrapped her little self around the knot of pain which was me. Then as I had tried so hard to protect her, Toni was hurt.  Hurt by her love for me.   

A Buddhist teacher once said we should never underestimate the urge to bolt.  I had repeated it various times, thinking of myself, "One more thing, and I will go." I would tell myself, "One more heart pang, one more tear, one more worry, and I will go."  I was convinced I would leave.  I would bolt.

I had forgot the saying did not just apply to myself.  It applied to others.  They could leave as well. 

Toni left.

Now, I cannot tell anyone.  I am not sure if it is my pride keeping me from it. I will not accept charity until there is no other way.  I will go without things for years before asking for help.  No one must know she has left me.  

Now, I only ask for kindness.  The world is full of such quackery. None of it brings healing.  I only want kindness.  Oh, to wrap myself in a soft foam form envelope of strawberry scented kindness.  I can imagine it.  It is the only thing that brings me hope. That there will be kindness.

No one seems to meditate laying on their side.  They think Buddha laying on his side was merely a death statue instead of a lovely prop up on elbow, thinking of nothing and nothing in between.  I did not know how to do any of it.  But, once again, a man with lovely hands, touched my wrist, told me, "Tonight we fly."

RISE, MOON, RISE

Rise, Moon, Rise
copyright,2014
©aladreth antoinette brown

oh, to tell these words,
Rise, Moon, Rise

the prophets say you are bloody,
associated with
doorposts in egypt stained
with blood

an eight year old boy
in an italian restaurant,
says to me,
"pass over, get it? pass over."

little devious plans of
birth certificate changes,
leaving one identity,
running toward something else

go on then,
Rise, Moon, Rise

the poets love you,
and I, not claiming to be, have looked you
straight in the face,
and not found any deeper happiness
than upon the head of hollow bell pin
with miniature societies
holding dream-screams,
tarantulas in bunny suits
with capes of lace

or a man ...
OH, GOD LOVE THE MAN,
a man who comes
over and over and over again

and then, what a twat, he
threatens to walk out

i am naked, alone
waiting for a chauffeur to drive me there
and sit patiently on my drape-style orange sofa
while i turn down the thermostat
because my mother would be angry, crazy-angry!
just how old am i ???

naked
but for a towel,
not nearly covering anything

no one cares, i am invisible,
i whisper,
"come back,
help me save
the creek, the sound of
which you like"

(oh, don't pretend you don't remember
when you said you liked the sound
of Oak Creek)

oh, what a shame this and that
are dying
and my leo has had to become involved,
and what a shame we know nothing,
so little ...
each day learning ...
today it was lion cubs being hidden
as leopards - so, so, so cute
even if on the back of a cereal box.

from the corner of my eye,
the bad eye, the eye that can't be trusted,
"It is a javelina,
no! it is a dog,
don't punch it!"
hold me,
comfort me
stop me from stoning
every good thing,
help me remember
the girl who sang
of the heart, the cross,
the me,

she sang and under me
blossomed
even as bad as i was, OH DEAR,
under me blossomed
still,
she agreed!
i was a stone!
i asked her to sit on my
cold, old lap,
sort of a cross between,
"Fuck you, and a genuine thanks
for the compliment."

sure, ask them if i am losing it,
like they would know

you in my prison, you bringing cake,
cake with a file,
there's a kiss you bring
soul synchronized kiss,
how lackadaisical you are
over and over again
in your buzzy red wine hair

So go on, moon, go on,
Rise, Moon, Rise
stir passion,
no matter it chemically created,
i will take it,
to learn new steps in the dance
of life-pomegranate-chakra
vibrating light,
imprinting that scent,
beer like your mom (she was such a fishwife) used to make,
forsaken places, water towers, or little sheds by train tracks,
mister ed lived there or whatever
the boogeyman was called back then
...SCARY, YET ... there was a thousand dollars
under his mattress!!!

YES! YES! YES!
bring us to the second life
  of magic,
magic that did not have to be
pirated ... by us filthy human ones ...
Rise, Moon, Rise

Rise, Moon, Rise

Angel Rewrites History at Ontario Beach

Angel Rewrites History at Ontario Beach

@aladreth

ACT ONE--Yes, It's Been Forty Years:
in sorrow, his mother looks at him,
she knows he's in pain,
his back burning with open wounds
she touches places forbidden
tricking him to sleep,

she wants his dreams alive
with cherry blossoms and spring water
she means well
he knows no different

ACT TWO--The Repressed Memories:
his mouth closed,
soul crying,
"oh, mommy, can i tell you, i know you are going?
going, going.....
to a far away place.
i will be sent to another planet, yes, another planet,
to live with aunt mae and uncle tom."

mommy brushes him away
with right hand,
marking his chest

it's happening now,
no premonition needed...
waiting for the ambulance to come

right now, right this second,
he chews his nails and talks to wenches in the road
about prices of local carnivals

ACT THREE--The Death:
he can't remember a body in the casket there
but, the mortician wears jade rings
and a suit the color of the lining where she lays

kiss mommy
"no, I can't, don't make me"

an empty house whispers, "it's time"
and sometimes things go like this,
sometimes lemonade tastes as bad as lemons

ACT FOUR--The Life:
nothing is right,
gorillas speak different languages,
cake mixers open night clubs,
blue haired ladies show skin,
young men learn belly dancing to jazz

an angel appears... points out in the sea...
he gets to rescue a dying girl
and the heavens take back his punishment.
the gods say he has permission to live again
and despite a couple of flashbacks of the war
and a crazy dominatrix who breaks his thumb
hoisting him up in a deserted warehouse,
he turns out alright

Styrofoam is Forever

Styrofoam is Forever
@aladreth

No one could have resisted Miss LaFosse's appeal, let alone Miss Pettigrew 
with her susceptible heart.  She felt strong with compassion and sympathy,
though for what she hadn't the faintest idea.  Yet behind her solitude,
rather guiltily, Miss Pettigrew felt the most glorious, exhilarating 
sensation of excitement she had ever experienced.  "This," thought Miss
Pettigrew, is Life.  I have never lived before." - Winifred Watson, "Miss
Pettigrew Lives for a Day."



You equals peace, love, cream cakes, hugs, sweeties, positive vibes, prayers, kisses, tickles, red wine, waves crashing, stiff cocks, empathy, spiritual love voices, sunflowers, whispers, bass lines, lust, melodies, the moon, tea, fish an chips, nastiness, raindrops on my tongue, smiles, cuddles, steak, TDK cassettes with 70's porn, a listening ear, seeds, chocolate milk.

God, you equals so many good things.

Me equals a fake and a liar and a thief and all things slimy or boooootififul.  (Depending on if you like that type of stuff.)

So once again I tell you a story full of "the moral of ..." and wonder.

This time it's about Anita Brunelle.

Anita Brunelle was a character much like one I wrote in a screenplay years ago. She is a character you are under great pressure to hate because she stands on the edge of mediocrity. She certainly isn't part of the media's beauty club.

So, you must hate her. It is prescribed in all the magazines on newsstands today. She is wrong.  She is bad. She is flawed.

At the same time you fall in love with her and sometimes feel sorry for her because she's vulnerable, naive and weak.

In straight animal evolution she will not survive, but we have inside us some pretty emotion to like the underdog.

In my screenplay, the Anita Brunelle character fell in love with a serial killer fellow named Bill who prank called her in the middle of the night.   He wanted to chew on her panties.  Prank calls were his way of relaxing after a full night of assassinations.

Prank calls are quite interesting.  You can hang up.  I'm sure we all have, but then there's one or two times you listen, you hang on, instead of hanging up and maybe even carry on a conversation with the pervert.

Who would blame you?  Who could blame you, if you were Anita Brunelle.

So, Anita has been dreaming the same dream over and over.  A baby sits in a wet diaper in a black Styrofoam container.  This is the type of Styrofoam box you get leftovers in from the restaurant.  It's the type of Styrofoam the conservancy magazines say will stay in our landfills for a long, long, long time.

Wet baby bum sticks to black Styrofoam.  It's quite the dilemma.

What does Anita Brunelle need with a baby?  She's too fat, tired and old to think about babies now.

One more thing to fail at.  One more thing to drop and break.  And that is just what she does.

She drops the baby!

Luckily, Anita finds just as dreams go, the baby falls softly on the gold sofa from her grandmother's house. Oh, 'tis long gone now - but in your dreams, everything remains as beautiful as it was 30 years ago.

Anita remembers sleeping on that gold sofa in her long purple robe.  She felt more safe staying bundled up in her robe hiding all her pretty bits as her cousin would always tickle her.  She even remembered him 'de-pantsing' her in her maroon corduroy pants.

Those were the same pants she had a full blown accident in when she was in bible camp in the mountains and didn't want to go to the bathroom in the woods.  She wouldn't dare risk getting her butt bit by something from the pines.  Worse than something from the hills.  Even with the roll of toilet paper they handed her, she just couldn't risk it.

Dreams are horrible when they are so close to waking hours.  Who wants to dream of the washer overflowing?  Who wants to dream of being avalanched by all the papers on your desk?  It happens so often in real life.

Anita wanted to dream of being Nurse Nancy to Al Schreiber; old, wounded veteran.

Anita wanted to dream of being Judge Janie to that sexy boy from England and send him down to his punishment.  "Straight with you, boy, to the dungeon!"

And she would join him later.

Anita wanted to dream of lazy, breezy bumble bee filled afternoons under Mulberry trees.

Anita wanted to dream of creating happy songs to bring peace to the world, saving the planet one Styrofoam container at a time.

Anita wanted a wet dream.  A fantasy fulfilled with the slight sound of an adorable lover in her ear, saying things so sweet and waking to him crawling up to her thighs beneath the sheets. Half awake, half asleep, still dreaming.

But it could be reality.

It could be.

The Rolling Jesus Tour

The Rolling Jesus Tour

copyright 2010-2014
@aladreth

I read this.
I read this to him.
I said, "What do you think?"
He said, "Different."

He doesn't get me.
Do you get me?
We like Jesus.  Many people like 
Jesus, Love Him, have a relationship
with Him, hear Him speak ... some 
Christians like Jesus. 

Witches, you 
might guess don't like Jesus. 

You would be wrong.  

They love Jesus too.

It was a magical tour, rolling on machines
like wheelchairs - like amusement park trams, 
like ski lifts - just like fun.
Fun all around for everyone.  So much damn fun.

My friend for thirty years and I road 
"The Rolling Jesus Tour."  

She's an ex meth addict.  Weighed less 
than a Buck-O back when, 
was sleeping without sheets.
Without Water.
And other dignities.

I took her son from her many years ago.  I also
took a shiny dolphin sign and a Wizard of Oz magnet.

Oh, maybe a few more things too.  Things I thought
I could protect from her burning herself to death.

I couldn't catch the cats. 
There was raw meat on the kitchen counter.
"Officials" had already come.

Her husband, who later died in a "freak accident,"
took the comic books and floor tile.

I bought her 
groceries.  

Sometimes Taco Bell.

But, I had to get tough.  

Had to practice tough love.
Had to hang up the phone on her.
Had to break in to her house a few times.
Had to do a lot of things I didn't want to do.

Now she's recovered.  

Had nothing to do with me.

I do not take credit.

She used to be so skanky. 
Now she's nice.

I gave her son back to her.
Sorta.  He's grown now. 
I kept the dolphin 'cos she didn't want it anymore.

I bought her a pair of ruby red slippers 
to replace the magnet.
"You are sober.  There's no place like home,"
I told her at a meeting and made her cry.

In case you aren't aware, 
ex-addicts can be the absolute worse when it comes
to being radical conservatives.  She likes
Sarah Palin.  I don't.  But, I like my friend.
I just delete all her e-mails that are forwards.

On our tour, 
There was a great big Jesus 
in a pool.  The pool was in a sea.
The sea had big raggedy cloths of oil 
and fish with oil
on their fins, backs, and in their mouth.
So much oil.  The poor things. But,
What if we fall in the sea as we roll over it?
We'll sue.
We will sue the people who made the great big
Jesus, the people who made the great big Rolling 
Jesus Tour.  We will sue the Ocean.  The God. 
The Obama.  The Allah Akbar.  With a bullet.  

We will sue.  
If we fall in the sea. 

Jesus was casually leaning back on the stairs 
of the pool, His great big Hand placed on His 
Crotch - paying homage to the great R & B and 
Pop stars? Did He approve of Rap Music? Or could
it mean He was thinking of all the great big girls
in bikinis - the Stantonesque Girls because Jesus
liked them?  Why not?  Why wouldn't Jesus like them?

They were nice.

Maybe He didn't want us to know He liked them.
Therefore, He would cover His Crotch with His Hand.

Maybe it meant nothing.
There was so much to think about. 
Art is like that.

Jesus leaned over, pulled a snail out of the sea 
and ate it.
Was it to prove to us Vegetarians it was okay to 
eat meat?  Or could it mean he was delaying His
Second Coming - a snail's pace, My child, sending
a snail-mail in form of oven burned book.  Shiny
ribbon soiled with fish oil.  Gallbladder bursting
from beating the Muslim turned Christian. 

There was so much to think about.
Maybe it meant nothing.
Art is like that.

The tour ended with a tiny little girl dressed 
in pink and a Breast Cancer Awareness drive.  
Pink things everywhere ... no one screaming as they
road through a cemetery, "Thank God I'm alive, all you 
fuckers are dead, so go suck an egg."  No, just a
drive for money.  But, we had not brought any money.
We'll take a pledge.  Sure, we'll sign a pledge.  

Can we get down off our rollers?  Follow the girl
in pink?  Pink t-shirt, pink ribbons, pink earrings,
pink coaster pants, pink skipping shoes, pink laces.

The Rolling Jesus Tour was finished.  A memory.
All the time we could not tell 
if they wanted us to hate Jesus or love 
Him.  We could not tell.

We used to be smart.  
We used to could tell.

They ... they have confused us, confuzzled us, 
made us stupid, made us lazy, greedy and 
hooked on video games.

We will sue. We will sue The Obama. The God.
The Allah Akbar.  The Sea.