Where I've Been/Where I'll Be...

for the great heist. for the victims. and those that have walked away from the fire. alive.

i never thought i would find myself here. affected and torn and beaten
with the effort of trying to remain fair. we witnessed an atrocity and
even still, found ourselves holding back the fury, in attempt to protect
a person whose only involvement, was his choice to love this young lady.
the one that shared meals and laughter with us. this young lady has
a helluva man. a man who losses the most because of her selfish and
irresponsible behavior. and the truth ain't always the easiest to dish or
receive. but it's our duty to accept it: good, bad and ugly.

the good: he is a damn good friend. and will remain that. he has not lost
a believer in me. luckily we found out (thanks to nerd-o-rific baz and JIVE)
in time before any more damage (or chapbooks and lesson plans with her name
cited in place of our blood) could be caused.

bad: she is not welcome any longer. not because we aren't of the forgiving
nature (myself not included) but because she has continued to lie about her
involvement. even the half-assed apology couldn't hide her whine of a wannabe
martyr. and with the recent posting to my blog from her dilusional friend
claiming her innocence, i realize i didn't do my part.

ugly: where i'm from: there are no more words to share. nothing left to
speak about, it's violent and redemptive. where i am now: is an understanding
of how much more powerful these words can be. how many lives they change.
how many children they feed. this throat, these fingers - have earned the right
to do with our crops, as we choose. her hands, never pruned the dirt of an
addict, never scraped the skin of a woman with numerous reasons to write harder, never fed a child while another lay in her womb, waiting for its introduction into this world. she had no right to lay claim over these lives. and honestly, i am steps away from going back to the world i know.

my reply:

The worst thing you can ever do is plaguarize the work of active and working artists. Myself (author of poem day11 - 16 on this particular post - not including the others) , Rachel McKibbens (Author of over half your posts) and jeannan verlee is the most disgusting thing i've ever seen in my life. not only are you pretending these poems are you - but the experiences and the lives and the deaths that occurred in the making of these pieces. If you do not delete these immediately, there will be far worse that can happen to your existing "image". We feed our families through this method. And we allowed you, a predatory, into our artspace as a means to further create art, inspire and ignite a community. You are a disgrace.

you gotta send me a request to get on the list.

unfortunately, i just found 20 of my poems from

the 30 poems in 30 days series, along with pass off's of

Rachel McKibbens, John Survivor Blake and Jeanann Verlee.

To protect myself and my community, I am only allowing people

that request a viewing my blog entry. Sorry.

he never knew how to hold your hand. wipe
your cheeks, stained with liquor and cum. make

you laugh when mimicing your first hangover. the
bath tub you slept in, the rose bush your first love

tangled around himself like ropes after jumping out
your bedroom window. i blamed myself for loving

you too hard then. even after the first fight. the first
hit against his head with a wine cooler bottle. we were

so beautiful in our ignorance. drinking twelve packs
and 40 ounces, speeding down interstate 5, the truck

held us like our father couldn't. unashamed at our
brave new voice. we feared his opinion, if he'd caught

us dancing with those boys in rancho cordova, our
clothes dishelved and lifted by unknown fingers. greedy

monsters squeezing the gift of hormones. our invitations
were a modest series of eye squints and thigh lifts, pelvic

thrusts and lip gloss. years later,i will suck on a man's ear
lobe, my memory won't know his bestfriend's name. only

his face from the television screen. and it won't taste like
in high school when your face was licked by a stranger

after the state fair. your cheek smelled like a mix of boone
farm and drakkar cologne. instead my tongue will sting of

salt and his surprise. a jealous worm still cruved around my

spine. you were all C cups then. not much has changed now.
maybe your smirk that hides a phoenix when feeding your

child. your cool breath blowing away the burn. maybe it is
the church sermon you continue to relay for my salvation.

8 years gone is never too late, you whistle. it is when i run
across our high school yearbook. when i finger his knowing

beam. how he thought he'd gamble our virginity. the time
we pretended to be girlfriends in love with the same man.

how he felt so honored in receiving phone calls from us
both. maybe we should have been sweeter girls then. the

ones that didn't harbour boats of parental addiction. the
ones that only enjoyed dance routines to MC Hammer. the

ones that would forgive the abusive boyfriends. the ones
that took less pleasure in listening to a young man cry on

the three-way. the ones that would call when your father
passed away from cancer the eve before spring. outside his

window, the same rose bush. squeezing like breasts teetering
between bloom and almost. i wonder if the thorns still taste

like your tears.