Grown-up

I asked my daughter,

What dya want to be,

When you are a big girl?

Her answer made me

Want to dig my own grave,

On a stolen plot somewhere,

And jump in, without a tank

Of Oxygen or Oxycodone.

What an oxymoron!

I didn’t even want the grave marked,

For she said she wants to be a “socialite”.

Warped

Brain noodles,

Polynesian poodles,

Yahoo doodles.

Unibrow model,

Half throttle,

Fizzless bottle.

American Rubel,

Aristocratic strudel,

Lawyer mogul.

Scatting yodel,

Zero subtotal,

Rhyme, McDougal.

Bloody fences,

From your menses,

Diva cup frenzy.

Glitterati, Illuminati,

Take it nonchalantly,

What’s with the shite-shitey?!

Extra shirt buttons,

Who is that glutton?

Got’em by the dozens,

Bitch, pick your cotton.

Bleeding brain noodles,

Writing Warhol doodles,

Mush in your puddle.

Return, hillbilly,

With ass in chilli,

Boo! Scaredya totally.

Babble

Oh you don’t my cackling laughter?

Why, I will just giggle like Barbie.

Oh you don’t like my one liners?

Why, I will just say oops like Barbie.

Oh you don’t like my stinky bombers?

Why, I will just eat kale like Barbie.

Oh you don’t like my slam poetry?

Why, I will just draw hearts like Barbie.

Oh you don’t like where I’m going with this?

Why, I will just take my top off like Barbie.

Money

Yes, it’s true what they say. Money cannot buy you happiness. But it sure can buy you 5 star vacations and that’s about as happy as a grown-up can get. Sure, there’s the unhinged, unwavering, unwarranted happiness that is in a child. But that child grows up, in a society fret with problems. Problems created by grown-ups who build schools and colleges to help solve those problems. Talk about going in circles.

I have been on the planet over three decades and I can narrow down to two moments of sheer joy: one, when I married my now adulterous husband, and two, when I saw the man holding my baby in his arms. If that isn’t true love, I fail to see what is. And that same man denied me a hug a minute ago because “he needed some time apart”. I don’t even have any Valiums on me to counter that shrug. All I can do is whine to the world, where I know I am not even going to be heard. This man, he cheated, lied, and beat me up and blamed me for everything. I have started thinking that maybe I am the monster who torments someone so much they want to beat the shit out of them.

I have sobbed, slept on hotel floors, waited for a taxi at 2 in the morning because I was thrown out of the house, made to leave my child behind, been called a whore who can’t even sell her body for sex, and beaten up black and blue; why? Because I asked this person why he needed another woman in his life.

Five tequila shots down, I finally have the courage to share my story. I know there would be several women out there going through this and worse shit possible. If you are one of them, leave a message and the least we can do is give a metaphorical shoulder to cry upon. YES, face it, world! Women cry. They’re not being melodramatic, they’re just being real.

And if you are one of those wife-beaters, please, for the love of whatever you love, stop doing that, no matter how much she provokes you. You were born out of a woman. And just because someone annoys you or you are filled with rage, does not give you the right to hit a woman. Women are not the weaker sex. Women are the smarter sex. That’s why “housewives” is more common than “househusbands”. That’s right, we put our pedicured feet up and send the man to make money to buy us shoes.

In spite of everything, a woman would do anything in her power and beyond to protect her family. She is not just a mama bear to her sons and daughters. She’s mothering you as well, the “breadwinner”. She’s the glue that keeps it together; without her, everything would fall all over. RESPECT, mofos, RESPECT!

Once again, I hit refresh,

A million times a minute.

Once again, I check the dial tone,

A million times a minute.

Once again, I hope against hope,

A million times, I cry.

Once again, I pray,

A million times, to make it right.

Once again, my heart breaks,

A million little pieces scattered.

Whoops! I just farted.

Lucky nobody’s around.

Smells terrible too,

Like a corpse in the ground.

There’s no meaning,

To anything in the world.

It’s all there and not there,

At the same time.

I am trying to rhyme so hard,

It hurts, because words were made,

To communicate, not heard.

Payback’s a bitch, you’re right Stephen K,

But there’s also good karma,

And all that bullshit people sell you.

The world isn’t dead, just not “woke”,

For every struggle two hands go through,

There’s six more to help you.

Is this good enough to rap, I wonder,

Heck, who cares, as long as the beats are thunder.

I have so much to say, I forget what it is;

I pay a shrink to remind me this.

Catharsis is getting it out of your system,

But what if your system is full of holes?

Shouldn’t all the pain escape through the pores?

I make no sense, but I see the light.

Not at the end of the tunnel,

But right here by my side.

Grace

Grace: Must be someone’s name. But when I hear “Grace”, I’m reminded of Elaine Benes.. Remember that? 😂

I am currently in the phase of coming to terms with being single. Younger lady I once was, no longer I am. The novelty wore off; kicked to the curb. And I thought, SHIT!

So, here’s a reminder to all the gentlemen out there who abandon their partners for a younger, lighter, prettier one. She also poops. And her shit smells like shit too.

Pooping with grace, but poops nonetheless.

Stupid Sunglasses

Stupid Sunglasses,

I have so much to say.

The message is lost,

Let’s try another way.

You had a loose screw,

It needed tightening.

Part of you broke,

You kept on finding.

In a moving car,

On a hilly road.

You jumped about,

You burst out.

There was no need,

For all that fuss.

You blocked the sun,

And now you have no son.

Like I said before,

The message is lost.

Just like the sunglasses,

A bow to my blindness.

 

Ka-boom!

Oh, headsplits and splinters, go away.
Nasty litle tricks you play.
Deluded, hallucinating, is that you?
The water’s too cold.
And the sunlight’s too harsh.
The noises that sink in beautifully are a din.
Nimble fingers, shaking.
The wait’s over.
Enlightenment dawned.
The dance of the devils,
The sway of the wild.
There is a light at the end of the tunnel.
It will wait till eternity.

Mother Earth

Wrinkles in time.
Footprints in sand.
The lily in the pond.
The patter of the rain.
Illusions on a caravan,
In a desert of delusions,
The lure of the mirage.
Calling out, not there.
A madman and his whims,
A million stories of the sea
A flashlight and a path,
The sounds of the night.
Silhouetted and soft,
The jewels strewn across.
The water in the sun.
The black got blacker,
The air got thicker.
The tall towers passed.
Against the shadows dark.

Diablo

Winter,

Spring,

Summer and

Fall.

They came, they went.

Something thawed.

A night owl,

Hooted aloud.

A bat hanging,

Screeched from the bough.

In dark robes,

Weilding a scythe,

A faceless figure,

Glided in the night.

Roaring and thundering,

He beckoned the sleeping,

To worship him and bring,

The blood of the weakling.

Stranger thoughts were never thought,

Scarier tidings were never brought,

The seasons changed from winter to bright,

And yet this monster would not slide.

Tired of waiting and wanting,

He moaned a hideous whisper,

Left atop a shrine that was pointing,

To neither heaven or hell’s emperor.

Cried he, not from the hunger,

But from his weakened surrender.

Back to the forest, he glided,

Until the new man was knighted.

 

Small Talk

**Before I begin the not-so-small talk, let me tell you this- these thoughts occurred to me in the morning cool, while walking past the breezy canopied streets. So, if they are scattered or offensive, my sincere apologies**

I recently read on someone’s blog that nobody pays for Apple Music anymore, it’s the time of podcasts. I don’t know if the blog was very old, or if I am very old, but I still pay for Apple Music, because they keep my playlist as it is, without throttling it with their suggestions. I like the sequence my playlist has been following for years. Sure, there’s more added every now and then, but I do not shuffle. It’s a routine. Imagine Dragon had finally made it to my playlist with Levitate. I am still not buying the “You are my shooting star” nonsense. I mean, come on! A 6 feet tall hunk who can sing and play the guitar would have shooting stars all over the place. But anyway, I figured I don’t want to be one of those frumpy oldies who only lobbies for Hank Williams and Willie Nelson, so I took to the “new-age” music so I could discuss the now-trending-later-classics with my son. 30 years from now, Justin Bieber and Charli XCX would be classic, right? So I like to know what’s going on and some of them are really good. But what is with the EDM, Trance, House and all of those (for want of a better word) thumping, beatboxing, raving, eclectic music scene going on, I do not know and don’t care to know. I may be wrong here, but you must have a temporarily comatose cerebral cortex to enjoy and dance to that. I only hope my son doesn’t take to that.

So back to the business of talking music – I have a morning routine, I walk- earphones and walking shoes and all. (No Fitbit, no!) and during the hour-long walk, I listen to my playlist. I cannot walk without someone blaring in my ears. It’s like a lullaby for walking. And when you go on a routine walk in a routine place, you develop acquaintances. Most of them are just (‘morning!) acquaintances and thank God for those. Some are “smile and nod” ones, which are still okay. But then some are just that make me go, “Man! That b**** is going to want to talk”. So I start preparing for the calamity: you know, put your head down, look the other way as if you have just spotted a blue jay, look at your palms as if you got a boo-boo, pretend your shoe laces are undone, suddenly change the direction you are walking in. And I go through all this trouble, just so I don’t have to stop listening to Bobby Womack. I can easily press pause and unplug, but I don’t want to because when Bobby Womack is singing, you’d want to listen. So, over comes the acquaintance and starts asking weird-a** questions like “How are you? Long time no see? Nice weather, isn’t it? Did the son leave for school? Where is the husband? How is the husband? Why don’t you come to the park? Are you collecting clothes again for donation? When are we ordering those brownies again? Are you going somewhere for the holidays? Were you bathing your cat last evening?”  These are actual questions I have encountered. Now you see my fury?! The answers to all the above are as below:

  • How are you? – DUH! You see me walking.
  • Long time no see? – I turned around before you could see me, every single time, for weeks!
  • Nice weather, isn’t it? – Yes, enjoy.
  • Did the son leave for school – Do you see him with me? Are you going to his school to do some monkey business? Did you want to talk to him?
  • Where is the husband? – Sleeping.
  • How is the husband? – Sleeping.
  • Why don’t you come to the park? – Because I am not 4 and I don’t particularly enjoy slides and swings and sand play.
  • Are you collecting clothes for donation? – No, I am not. If I was, you’d get the news.
  • When are we ordering those brownies again? – Order them yourself!
  • Are you going somewhere for the holidays? – No. All of you go, and I will enjoy the peace here.
  • Were you bathing your cat last evening? – Yes. I possibly cant meow like that, and just like dogs, cats do get dirty.

All of these are fairly obvious answers, aren’t they? Rhetorical! But folks still feel the need to make small talk. I irritate a lady who is pregnant (and she’s not due until the summers) by saying, “Any day now, huh?” every time I see her. She is the only one victimized by my small talk. I do not know how to talk small. I can talk big, but even then, I get tongue-tied and sweaty-palmed and words rush out faster than thoughts. So I end up making a fool of myself. Bose and air-pods and the likes came up with noise-cancelling headphones for a reason. When you see someone wearing those, it is a billboard saying, “Do Not Disturb”. Similarly, if you spot someone wearing Crocs, it is a billboard saying, “Do Not Give Fashion Advice”.

So, to sum up, let me ask you this: If you were walking at the beach and saw someone in their swimming gear, soaking up the sun by their beach umbrella, having a sip of something cold, would you walk up to them and kick sand in their faces? I know one would feel tempted, but would you do that, really? As a society, we must refrain from acting out on our instincts, otherwise the world would go helter-skelter. So next time, you see someone enjoying the alone-time, stay away and do not stop for a chat. They just might be packing heat.

 

The Brothers Karmazov

Walked in the drizzle,

With a heavy heart.

Stifling the groan,

The groan of sadness.

Stopped by a store,

Bought a cheap wine.

Asked for a cork screw,

Popped the bottle open.

Made a call, sat on the ledge.

Chugging and talking to a fantasy.

Heartbroken and inebriated,

Recipe for disaster.

Oh, the monsters, you are funny.

Y’all spread happiness,

Y’all spread sadness.

The lines are getting blurred,

Confusion reigns, very strange!

Six degrees of separation,

Disliked the theory now.

It was better in the clouds,

The candle wanted to burn on,

A woosh, a whiff, a whisper,

And the flame is gone!