How do I get up there, Mommy? I want to fly. I want these things flapping on my side to swiftly embrace the sky. I can't figure it out. I looked at those fuzzy balls of fur slowly making their way up in those cotton balls and trees blowing up probably by an invisible man. How do I get up there, Mommy? I want to fly. I want these things flapping on my side to swiftly embrace the sky. It must be a magic trick Some sort of balloon in helium magic wisp of puffing up like a cartoon and have the sun hit your face like an orange fire ball in the afternoon. So she bends down softly and says, Do you wish to know how to fly? Well, surely my toddler brain knows I want to go up that high. Then she arches her back and swoops me up a bundle of chocolate with flapping arms lifts me to the ceiling and says there is no limit when you got a little push and falling will never be your harm. See how I get up there, Mommy? Look at me, fly. I finally got these thing...

All hail the Easter Bunny. There are promises of eggs. Little small gifts enclosed in plastic oval shapes, smelling of new chemicals freshly pressed from large manufacturing companies. My gift to the weather. A small token of spring. Perhaps the swiftness and cool eyed crispness deserves better awakenings than Folgers in your cup and effervescence scalding hot in aging fingers. It's all daisies, ribbons, and freshly starched outfits pressed for the deadline on velvety pews, gotta make it on time in the rush of traffic where runways are composed of yellow dashed lines and patent leather shoes pressed to the metal of gas ignitions. Who needs a Bible? We all have our outfits and hopefully unstained chocolate pressed against our lips honoring the risen from a sealed tomb after three days after the cry of vinegar quenched lips and warm blood dusty from a crown of thorns. Let me celebrate once. Once in my life, go to an edifice filled with familiar tunes and paper ...

a still picture. i captured you in a moment, in a once upon a time fragment suspended by hands of time freely ticking upon tocks and halted for your time of release. you are, to me, a simple still picture trying to be a part of conscious memories where subconscious memories dance upon shadows on walls and laughter that was reverberated off the acoustic ceilings. i captured you in a moment. a stillness that was both moving and vibrant free and totally me cherished and impoverished of what that "l" word is supposed to be. but you are not worthy. not worthy to grace my thin inner plastic linings of adhesive glue meets matte paper indulgence of a photo frame desire upon a memory book. your pages did not last i can not escape the mere thought of how seven little images can capture a few months a few weeks, a few seasons, a few years.... perhaps we did not like to snap the photo did not like to capture what was supposed to be free capture what was supposed to not be exposed capture...

my worth measured in honey thick thighs and swinging hips movement and magnetization within the males lick of the lips my worth calculated by Hershey kiss nipples and cleavage exposed (bounce) make ripples of human flesh re-defined and slow to climb corporate ladders and executive suits when brain matter and intelligence is comparable to the next man hidden sex whom calls my thinking "cute." my worth balanced in the tangible ankles adorned with jewelry nape of neck perfumed with the secret of Victoria, my waist accentuated surely with g-strings and thongs legs, high heels and ached feet beneath the the sculpted legs long my worth counted and scrutinized ass plentiful and mocha chocolate skin hypnotized rhythms of bass movement in music videos hair dancing off of beats as I am called a hoe. bitch please there has to be more than this to me i am more than the calculation definition measurable and comparison driven societal degree in which they see me i am woman. no cliche of he...