A reminder for those times when you have heaped recriminations upon your head following disappointments in love....

Big girls cry too

#Coffee #RealTalk

Got 2B Real The Diva Variety Show is My New TV LOOOOOVE -

So I only just discovered Got 2 Be Real The Diva Variety Show and I don't even have any info on the Who, What, How (did all this delicious shade come to BE!?!?!) but don't worry about alla that...just watch ...and be sure that everyone is out of the room so you can roll on the floor and laugh as wild as ya wanna be! I am a fan 4eva!! This is the very first episode but there's a brand new webisode so check out the premise then get watching...I LIVE for this show now.


(DECEPTICON!!! omg dead!!)

                                                 this one is scream out loud funny....

Seriously I just watched the entire series and I had to laugh my loud ugly laughs...this show is BRILLIANT!! Belly aches. Belly aches, I tell you. SO happy! Best binge watch EVER!

                                            "This show be over soon. Shade last forever." 

Got 2B Real always!! :))))) xoxo 

Politrixie to Self "Stop Calling Other Ladies "Ugly"

I was listing the qualities of Iggy Azalea's wackness quietly to myself when I literally caught myself in this horrifically wrong-ass mode of thought....

I am much ashamed of myself. Why do women do that? Why do we tear each other down and then assert the enemy's ugliness as if that trumps all?? I don't know but I caught myself doing it ...and what's more I'm sure I shall re-offend before breaking this habit. BUT! I am committed to eradicating  this disturbing behavior and ---

UGLINESS of character. *sigh*

Let's be real. The Cause of Ugly has to stop with the Woman in the Mirror. Because as long as we perpetuate the idea that ugly is the lowest low then we all have the potential to be unjustly consigned.

Honestly it would be one thing if the critique were maintained at looks but it never is. It's always like "I hate that bitch. She's so wack. She's thinks she's hot and she just isn't. She thinks she's good at ----- but really she's just ugly." Mind you the BLANK can be anything. Rapping. Making sandwiches. Doing hair. Teaching class. 

And then out of nowhere you assert "AND SHE'S UGLY!" As if the death knell has now been declared!! 

The worst part is that in so many ways this is the most defining example of misogyny and hatred because if a woman isn't beautiful then she's clearly a failure. Worse, she's not merely a failure --- she is an ugly failure. Thus, by our own evil thoughts we create the lowest hell for those who are most like us, thereby causing and perpetuating un-happiness and the ever continuing cycle of Just Being Wrong For Being There. As women we're told we're wrong enough, but do we have to keep believing it?

It's not nice. It's certainly overkill if you are indeed listing a person's poor qualities. It's irrelevant and irreverent. If we as women allow ugliness as a character flaw to be a punishable offense just among ourselves can you ever even imagine the lengths of degradation that men have -- and will -- take such a flaw to? 

Witness: the spectacle of plastic surgery in all its refinement (or absence).

Which is not to pick on surgery alone of men's attempts at taming women -- I mean, the BRA?? Going to the grocery in 30 minutes and leaving mine off. Fuck it. One woman's ugly is another woman's rebellion. The only problem is this may be the one rebellion that cannot attract other rebels--

Because who wants to be part of the ugly cause?

We've got to eradicate the Cause of Ugly because it's far more insidious than it seems. It dehumanizes so swiftly that in one's mind you dismiss the woman from sight out of hand evermore.

For a sin that began in your own mind, not in her aspect.

Why does no one ever seem to notice that?

PostScript - Who is this fake Rihanna in the pic? I don't know what the reference  is. Actually I just grabbed what was available from Google when I put in the search images for "she's ugly"...hmm. That's a true story, as well. 

Crush Retaliation/Muse Obliteration

See this is where being a poet fucking sucks. Because whatever you're writing has been *ahem*... inspired. So I wrote a poem with this guy in mind and put his initials in the title.  Just a random little thing, whatevs. But what if the bastard sees my blog?! and a poem?! with his initials in the title?!  He'll be feeling all powerful and shit from dissing me by not replying to my note!!

 So I took his initials out of the title!! 

 DONE. I am a goddesss!!

(But, really, I still know that I wrote that poem about him, even if he never sees it.)

The Drama. *wipes a tear*

I wish I had never written the poem about him except that it was a decent piece and I sort of like it.

But fuck him. And not in the sexy way I'd planned!

Bastard.

That moment when you realize exactly how much stress you're under with the added, unfair aggression of not getting laid, and you just wished that the world had one, single collective ass to whip. 

MasterMindSet Diss(Miss)ed

Always Tomorrow, Never Today: What It's Like When Bad Luck Comes to Stay

by Ando Fuchs

For ten solid years now I have been tangled in the net of such epically bad luck, such foul fortune and evil fate that I can easily stand on this side of time's curve and see how so many people have backed away, backed away -- sometimes gently, sometimes with greater panic and urgency -- lest they, too, be splattered with my muck which might even be contagious, who can say?

I don't want to make a complaints list but I'll just let you know that by bad luck for me and mine I mean everything from my own near-death experience complete with white light and angels, the death of many family members who wasted away from corrosive cancers or Alzheimer's; the loss of my mother's house which didn't even have a bank loan and had been paid off for two decades but the Tax Man Cometh, and we ran, scraping by only by unloading most of our possessions. During this time my loved ones or I have been struck by illness, hospital stays, psych ward visits, near starvation, eviction, destitution....

Bad luck. That's all is is, right. Must just be lousy luck. This too shall pass.

And I'm not at all sarcastic when I say "this too shall pass" as my father always told me even as cancer ravaged his body and brain. I've had such an unusually blessed life that it seems almost spoiled to complain about all that bad luck that's followed such enormous prosperity for my first 30 years.

But the time comes when numbness takes over. When it becomes unbearable to think "what next?", or worse having to inform the few brave souls who stick around that yet again something's gone down and it's fuuuuuucked up.

I look around at my friends whom I was close to up until recent years when embarrassment of my constant state of penury and disaster led me to ground as if hiding from sight would at least protect me from the horrified and fearful looks on the faces of those trying to process mentally what I or my family were going through. Some folks simply couldn't even handle the stress of listening to the next bad thing forget about sticking around for moral support.

There have been times when I had no choice of course but to put my pride and dignity on the line to ask for help, just as I have been rudely, crudely been told to fuck off as well though I was seeking help from one I thought close enough to me to be honorary family.

This December I've lost a mentor to Alzheimer's. She hasn't died but she's not there anymore. In truth to call her a mentor almost minimizes the role she's played in my life at times. She literally saved me from homelessness before and as the gale winds of evil fate blow harder in my direction without her loving presence I again am standing on the threshold about to cross over into the night, rather entering some warm homely space.

I don't have anything profound to say about why these bad things happen and continue to happen like a carrion crow constantly circling the nearly dead in anticipation for a good meal. I spend a lot of time in meditation thinking about what I've done wrong...did I make the wrong choice there or here?...was I stupid in my choices?

And it's terrifying to stand out on the edge -- alone. Of course I have my adored mother with me but heavens she's getting too old to suffer this way especially considering that hers was a life of ease and luxury for 50 years.

It's not okay in our society to talk about the bad things, the sad things, the heartbreaking fear of having nothing and no one and no place to go. Nobody wants to hear it because the fear attached to such happenings is thick with the worry of contagion. A good friend can listen for only so long before deciding their duty is accomplished, and honestly I can't blame any one of them really. 

I always associate abject fear with deafening silence. Because when you're drowning it's impossible to scream even though the screaming in one's mind is overwhelming though it never reaches those standing by.

It's bad form in our society to have ugly troubles at all but for god's sake not during the holiday!! How dare you "spoil" everyone's fun!

When I found myself $300 short on rent this month my body was racked with an intense shiver and that sensation of cold water down the back - I had always read that description and imagined I knew what it meant but until you face a great, deep, unstoppable fear you can't actually know what it's like. 
Three hundred measly dollars. If I had to calculate how many times I've wasted $300 bucks or be shot in the head then I promise you my brains would be on the floor because I could never ever possibly  put a number to it. All the 300 bucks I ever spent now torment me in a tantalizing dance of temptation as I await the Eviction Fairy (kin to Anti-Santa) who will arrive soon and invite me to spend Christmas Day in some place other than the place I think of as my "home".

Bad shit happens and often it's so bad that out of respect the person afflicted doesn't even bother to share the news. Because it's considered gauche. It's an imposition upon others who feel their own hearts pounding at the visible marriage between the forces of nemesis and want to get far, far away from the operatic destruction that it plans to inflict. "Do they expect me to do something about their troubles?" is what the unafflicted are secretly thinking. "I can't be the one to be responsible for you"...or "I'm sorry to hear you're so troubled but best of luck, buddy".

On the other hand it's also nerve wracking and humiliating beyond all telling to confess the depths of one's troubles to a kind hearted well-intentioned soul. But I gotta say at this point in my life, in this chapter of Disasters and Damnation Politrixie Style I can accept evil fate with zero squeamishness for anyone else's discomfort. 

Pride goes before  a fall and hell, it's damn lucky about that because you need something soft to land upon when you finally hit the ground 

Politrixie PostScript: The I Ain't Mad Atcha Edition

PostScript re: Holidays @ Halle's or Get a Grip and Don't Fuck Racists

Not gonna lie: Gabriel Aubry is fine as hell!! I can see how Halle might have been weakened...But!! Big big big BUT! Nah, can't do it. Got to keep on, keeping on, there's a new train at the depot every hour, on the hour...plenty fish in the sea...

Ones who don't teach their children crazy race denial.

*waves goodbye with a wistful look at all the fineness that she will never have the opportunity to caress, touch, smell...* 

*strolls  right away*

*feelings bruised by Aubry's ignorance,  his blindness,his brain-weakness and lack of enlightenment Politrixie lets the tears fall where they may*

"Women Be Like, Nah I Aint Mad"

Brad Pitt is the only blonde for me anyway!

Presenting Politrixie's GOSPEL TRUTH....About The COS

One of the things that haunts me of this whole nastiness is thinking how many women are watching this spectacle of Bill Cosby imploding/exploding/being roasted in the hellfire of his evil Karma who are not willing to come out and share what happened to them.

We'll never know how many women he violated. The black community is still very restrictive and conservative even in terms of normative sexuality and it becomes downright censorious when it comes to anything that can be viewed as "deviant" which may be while no black women have come forward. The backlash would likely be terrible based on a lot of comments I'm hearing from other black folk. 

Thing is, Black folk, who do you think he was raping before he became a rock star with access to mickeys and what have you and infinte access to white women??

 He had to practice his craft on somebody after all.

Mhhm.

Silence protects patriarchy and reinforces the systems that keep women, especially black women from true freedom and realization. 

Let Karma alone to work on Cosby, and let's keep our daughters, mothers and sisters safe from sexual predators. Because when you think about Cosby has harmed more than himself, more than just white women, he's harmed how black people are reflected in the warped glass that is America.

Fuck the Cos.

i still miss you

----- Is a Helluva Drug

It is commonly known that addiction to crack-cocaine can lead to kill, however new-old evidence regarding the dangers of Whiteness the Drug is presently being re-examined in effort to explain the drug's chemical structure and long term effects upon the addict as well as his/her community at large.

When abused as a drug Whiteness addiction has side effects that include euphoria, delusion,and significant feelings of power enhancement that can lead to violence and fatalities in case of overdose.

If you or a loved one have suspicions that someone is abusing Whiteness (the drug) in an unhealthy manner please seek help immediately.

*paid for by the Whiteness Corrections & Rehabilitation Committee for the Global Welfare and Safety of Everyone Else

#FergusonBeLike

#Ferguson #BlackLivesMatter #ThingsMoreHurtThan DarrenWilson

Dear White People, Stop telling us what MLK would think of today's world. Maybe we'd know if y'all didn't kill him. Thanks, Black People

— Z (@ZCMassaquoi) November 25, 2014

Afraid of Home/Home is Where the Hatred, Fear, Terror & Injustice Live

A junkie walking through the twilightI'm on my way homeI left three days ago,
but no one seems to know I'm gone Home is where the hatred is Home is filled with pain and it might not be such a bad idea iIf I never, never went home again

Stand as far away from me as you can and ask me why Hang on to your rosary beads Close your eyes to watch me die You keep saying, kick it, quit it, kick it, quit it God, but did you ever try To turn your sick soul inside out So that the world, so that the world Can watch you die

           -Home is Where the Hatred Is
                   by Gil Scott Heron

Gil Scott Heron's masterpiece Home is Where the Hatred Is is actually an ode about the nightmare of drug addiction. However like every truly brilliant piece of art one can listen  to it metaphorically, and in this case the lyrics form a commentary on race in America thereby adding a whole different meaning to the horrors Scott sings of. 

There is a long tradition that can be traced far back of black intellectuals and artists leaving American shores to escape the special horrors that haunt those of black and brown skin. Kicking and quitting America is a dream that many play with in their imaginations, god knows I do; but if I can't afford to live here at home how I'ma look curled up broke and hungry on the shores of the Thames in London? So common sense tells me to keep my black ass at home where at the very least I have my mama in the next room who is liberal with her hugs. 

 If you take the metaphor of black Americans as addicts unable to quit the habit of living under tyranny of the country that enslaved their ancestors and, then freed the slaves only to successfully restructure the slave complex into private prisons, broken public schools, a mandate for militarized police forces to cull young black men and women, then it becomes clear that the need to survive is entirely dependent upon kicking and quitting this place. You can hear the pain in Gil Scott Heron's moan as he says to the invisible questioner imploring him to straighten up and kick the habit "God but did you ever try/to turn your sick soul inside out/So that the world, so that the world/Can watch you die?"

  

Oh but here in America blacks have turned their souls inside and out again and again. We are the people who created the only true American art form, jazz. We created bebop, doowop, hip hop. Our prophetic intellectuals have traced their lineage through us: W.E.B DuBois, Malcolm X, Martin Luther King. Of those three black men, two died in violence, murdered, shot down as dogs, or perhaps merely shot down as worthless niggers, and the third - the beautiful mind - DuBois chose to die far, far from the shores that bred him: he went "home" to Africa and died in Ghana the day following Martin Luther King's I Have A Dream Speech.

  

America is a dream for many and nightmare for some. It is the home filled with hatred and pain for many, and we are not the first generation to wonder if it's simply too dangerous to continue returning to the place that gave you life and consistently tries to recapture every drop of blood in repayment. Home is where the fear and the madness dwell; it is the returning swell of the rage like the current which sends the tides twice twice a day. 

Shall we drown in the blood like sacrificial animals? Is there ever more than a chance of survival for those who wear black and brown skin? Because living is not the same as thriving, and dying is not the same as being murdered - which is the death that awaits so very many of us. Perhaps our prayers have indeed been answered and the clarity is now agonizingly displayed everywhere we turn. It might not be such a bad idea if we never went home again.

Home was once an empty vacuum
that's filled now with my silent screams
home is where the needle marks                                                                                              try to heal my broken heart
And it might not be such a bad idea
if I never, if I never went home again

Holidays at Halle's, or Get a Grip & Don't Fuck Racists

                                

It's the Holidays So Halle Berry and Gabriel Aubry Are Getting Their Fight on Again

This is so cuckoo-clock cray cray that I gotta take a moment from the Moment of Silence over Ferguson...

So this year in the annals of Halle Berry and Gabriel Aubry's Race War, Halle is taking Gabriel to court because he wants to chemically relax 6-year old Nahla's hair. Of course this is quite tame compared to two Thanksgivings ago when Halle's current husband Olivier Martinez used Gabriel's face like he was trying to tenderize some meat. So, frankly this squabble rates rather lowly since it has not involved anyone going to the hospital or calling the police. 

However what interests me about this round of Jungle Fever is not really the whole natural hair versus relaxed hair angle. I just want to know one thing.

WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE who "accidentally" fall in love with and procreate with racists? How the EFF does that even HAPPEN? No, don't tell me you didn't know. Don't tell me no shit like "oh he got like that after we were together". Don't say any dumbass mess like that to me, I am not trying to hear it!! 

Because the fact is that either 1) you were cool riding the hate fuck for as far as you could and didn't bother to think thoughts beyond the sex or 2) you are just generally careless about the people you hook up with and it's a feature of ALL your relationships that you let the ugly peek its head out long past the Too Late timing marker.

Gabriel Aubry has been rumored for a long long ass time to be a racist. She's told that the he's beaten her up and called her the N-word...and she's claimed that she "didn't know til it was too late".but still had a baby with him!! 

 THEN after the baby came she supposedly finds out that he considers the child white and will do whatever it takes to brainwash her out of identifying with her black side.

But, you know, TALKING beforehand about that kind of thing would have been a big old clue that you should not procreate with such a person!!! For those who hate to ruin the moment by too much yakking I suggest even talking while fucking, it's a fantastic method for getting a lover to admit to shit that the otherwise might stay mute on for fear of angering you and endangering the sex part of the relationship. I'm not saying ask right when he's about to climax because then he might just say any-old thing and you will still have to bring it up later, but one way or another you need to sort of get a -hold of that Are You A Closet Racist thing early.

But again, that's gonna mean TALKING, not SCREWING.

Plenty of little girls get their hair straightened; my mother straightened my hair at 3 years old. Halle Berry and Gabriel Aubry are not fighting over hair relaxer: they are locked in a battle of relationship bitterness so ugly and foul that it has brought out the deepest most negative traits in both of them, thereby causing them to take it to the Thunderdome  field of play called RACE.

If you love your kids don't make them have to watch that!! And there's this 100% full proof way to avoid it: DON'T FUCK RACISTS!!!

THE END

November UnTitled

You must learn to walk

the hard road

 while feet are bare,

over hot rocks

and cobblestone stairs.

 to kneel upon sand

for years at a stretch;

and, still the clock,

for you

will never learn love nor respect;

*

 you may catch your reflection

now if you're swift,

and your shadow may dance

against the wall of what's done 

 just as we must learn 

to wish all our wishes

into the sun

because fire is catching 

in every way.

burn down the fear -

to absence-

a negative space-

filled by the lessons

hard-earned 

and spare

of hunger's true strength 

#Caucasity

White wise guy wants to empower rappers, unwisely believes that young black rappers want old white man's empowering wisdom. Because White wise guys are sad that the word their people created for purposes of white supremacy is being misused. Really old white wise dude? No. STFU.

#caucasity pic.twitter.com/wiWJxHHAcE
— BGD (@BlackGirlDanger) November 18, 2014

Rainbow IV by Nigerian Artist Ndidi Emefiele

Skunks, Skunk Weed, Sesqui and Dealy: Memories of Smoky Idylls on Eddie's Parade

Fordham University Rose Hill Campus in dawn's light - Dealy Hall is visible at the left

For four years I walked this route to Dealy Hall, the building pictured in the dusky light, where I endured some of the most demanding courses at Fordham College taught by the historian and co-founder of the African-American Studies Department, Dr Mark Naison.

Of course this particular corner of campus is fondly familiar as well for the countless late 

evening strolls with my clique of friends. Eddie's Parade was barely populated with students at this hour now that classes were over (though entirely over-populated by skunks waddling about; we learned to approach their domain respectfully, warily, jangling our keys vigorously to alert them of our presence, lest they take fright and spray their malodorous, noxious wind which was always detectable here in this particular region of campus, especially late at night.)

We were engrossed in our regular routine, strolling about in a goodly sized group attempting to appear innocuous as suspicious smoke marked the direction and location of our aimless, unsteady trail. Our merry band was a motley crew of races, ethnicities, sexualities, genders and variable dedication to scholarship (and lack thereof). This was the mid to late-90s, New York City, Bronx borough and no one of us could ever be accused of not keeping it real in regard to the principle of multiculturalism, but what was more important was being true, being friends for  friendship's sake, bonding and watching out for each other, taking care of  each other like the little family we were here at home away from home.

Yet our unit was based in another shared identity: as stoners (read: potheads, smokers, tokers, weed wackers etc).

Laughter loudly echoing across deserted Eddie's Parade we strolled, occasionally issuing paranoid shush-ings which only triggered further waves of euphoric giggles or irritable demands, as we walked, to respect and observe with strict courtesy the Puff-Puff Pass Rule.

"Is that Security?" someone would say, looking over their shoulder every few minutes, trying to look cool, trying to look like the inoffensive, harmless middle class kids that we were, and trying not to look like the giggleweed stoners that we so obviously were were. 

Soon the discussion would turn to  love of music (Erykah Badu, Lauryn Hill, Wyclef, , the Pixies the new Beastie Boys, Portishead, any and all trip-hop, as well as all old-school rap De La Soul or my favorite , Al Green,). Then someone would lead our wandering conversation over to a piece of gossip, or homework complaints, to money woes and to the most important topic at the moment which invariably provoked petty squabbling about what to eat and where to order from since the school cafeteria was anathema and filled with the worst fare I've ever been subjected to on a college campus. 

We stumbled back toward our dorms as the night sky revealed a swath of starlight, and paranoia peaking once again at the prospect of passing dorm security, which could, indeed, be  monitoring  us this very moment (!) until this threat was forgotten in the mists hanging low at the tree trunks in the faded autumn light, and the smoky haze of Webster Avenue weed that was for true the nastiest  skunkiest dirt weed to be found in New York City in the late 1990s.

The Political Mistress Manifesto: Declaration of Politrixie

Note:This piece is Under Construction and may change shape, form, and content over time...At first I thought it was complete but as time passes I find that I'm not entirely happy with it...It hasn't yet stumbled upon its paces but we'll get there eventually...12/30/14
~La Politrixie
__________________________________________________
I'm often asked what is the meaning of "Politrixie" as a term, what precisely defines a Political Mistress. And I have been waiting for the divine spirit of Inspiration to provide the very best, most illuminating form of expression. In short I've meant -from Day One- to provide my readers with a manifesto to proclaim who am I, Politrixie and what makes this blog different from any other. Finally I feel that I can present a statement that says it all...this one is quite special. However this is not the FINAL version; I sense that I may be working on and living with this piece for some time to come. But as it stands now on New Year's Eve Eve of 2014-2015 I can say this is the very first draft which is kinda special as well. Gotta start somewhere when you be easing on down that road. So it begins ;)

Artist: Adrienne

The Political Mistress Manifesto: Declaration of Politrixie

holla if ya heard me
if you were me

serving all the wrong masters

other than He

other than thee
mamon captured all your time
and its quality
you worshipped in the front row
at the alters of all the vanities
though in your dreams
you would have danced
nude and free and wild

would have been the phoenix and the fire

singing the song of your secret name

while the flames licked & whipped higher

Now there can be no more excuses
no shoulda coulda woulda
shall continue to fuel

any further of your delusions

yes, remove the whiteface --
(feel the heartbeat

 pumping through vein

--and again a little stronger)

falling away, the weakness

(cooning for cash ceases)
stop pretending to be free
(the whole ugly damned truth:
you was massa's puppet in entirety)

--and you can feel the silence. Can't you.

thicker than the air
Look at all the curious faces
as they stop to look and stare
What is behind this new face that we see??
Whence comes, of a sudden, this enigma?
Who is she of this feminine mystique?

Remember:

Indeed, they have not witnessed thee

Never once in your true form

and prior to this day 
you never flew aloft before

not til the moment when you finally swore

to rock your true colors loudly
to live to serve your own truth proudly
because the way you were living
at least admit to yourself

that it wasn't successful but it was full cowardly

as a mere shadow, as just a shade 
you had bought all the way up into the game
(like, as if you was the oligarch, the most highly paid!)
did not comprehend nor contemplate

the con that you willingly gamed
by which you were grievously played
too busy sip-sipping from the sterling magnum
drunk and clutching that champagne glass

oh, that ill- ass kool aid!! 

had you tipsy & dipsy 

trip once and you fall

glass after glass, you drank and drank...

you poor soul
you lost girl

;(did he call you his sweet thang?):

chile, I saw you:
 a mess and a-whirl
the kool-aid had you booty-shake dancing 
sangin' Beyonce's Crazy in Love 

II

that was never me, said thee

upon witnessing the spectacle

an  out of body view of oneself
 --out of integrity 

 --entirely outside self-respectablity
and the fear calling the shots
when you smiled and declared
''yass suh it was tasty fo'real them scraps of meal

you was so good to share!"

Now I demand

to be seen in my essence

At long last the command and 

the alchemy to bring forth 

the  intrinsic and distinctive entity of Me

it has finally morphed,

utterly coalesced 

I had to walk through the fire

in order to pass the test

And I am now so much more

Just as,

I am also so much less

Declared manumission

boundaries commissioned

This  now is my space, this is my position

I am here for my ownself,

to champion my worthy Cause

if not me, who else would bother?

I am my own soul's mistress

For your distress,

I may grieve but I do not regret

evermore I must be my own truth

evermore I have gone rogue, cut loose

I am the creature of no other

my quest hath discovered the One Teacher

an astral romance that showed me who I am

my former blindness is my shame:

to love one's bondage is ignorance

so melancholy: a pride in so wretched a loss

of agency, 
venom
claws 
and Cause

sterilized, 
de-fanged, 
figuratively spayed 

to be made harmless with no choice yea or nay 

Pity upon those who imagine empowerment

devoid of individuality
by massa pathetically tamed

Dreams of a Wildflower by Rhonda Gray

the beauty of freedom
is like the depths of the sea
the expanse of the universe
vast extant constant 
ever incomplete
metmorphosis of my center
now I, too, am in sync
in this life, 
and this breath,
I know that I am blessed
I have abandoned
my past of slavery 
to material illusion and indecision
Now my desires & my ambitions
co- exist and intersect
with eternal intentions
written within the map of the dusty stars
crafted by Thee 
who consists of Spirit and Divinity

I, like space & time, am joyful to know
that my journey has been Your own plan
so I glory in my sorrows, 
as well my mistakes
for they have been the making of 
my super-powers and strength
as I meditate upon the journey
I see it all depended upon my falling down
in order to witness space & time overhead
the celestial suspension 
a summons of the sublime



with the purpose of tempting to the heavens
and teaching me  flight
though I did not know then 
of the wings that are mine
until I was cast upon the ground 
and forced to consider my plight
which became full of wonder 
extinguished my fear of dark and night


Here at the last let me mention
For the sake of myself and my mission

Do not speak. Only listen:

It was my choice  to break away
my fortune
by Grace
to leave, to escape
a material reality populated by petty
thoughts & desires & enmities
inside a prison self-made
************
if you hear me
if you be me
if you can appreciate the difference
between seeming and being
to realize your purpose 
to rise upward
to transition
to learn to take flight
to use the wings you are given
fear not
doubt not
your journey is promised
it is explicitly written
go now walk with the wise