My job makes me hate myself

I lost it on a costumer last night after she pitched a fit about her $12.98 pants not being on sale and not being able to use a coupon. After nicely repeatedly saying that I was sorry and couldn’t do it, while she cursed me out, I lost it. I said something like this ( i was too pissed to remember every thing I said).

“Thats it. Im done with you. You’re a fucking bitch. Last week I sold over $16k of shit and I made $180, which is about 1% of what I sold. Thats fucking disgusting and Im not even at the bottom of the commodity chain. The 10 year old in Bangladesh that made these pants make on average $1 an hour and you are bitching about a $12 pant. Go fuck yourself.”

Macys made over 29 billion dollars last year and the people that make the clothing make an estimate of $4,000 a year. Thats fucked. When you refuse to buy something at full price, you don’t hurt Macy’s; you cause lay offs & pay cuts to people that produce, traffic, and sell the products.

That is why I don’t give a shit that costumers are pissed that items are not on sale or can’t use a coupon. You are buying something you don’t need and you are getting it very cheap, but not as cheap as you want it.
Why can’t you stop to think why you are really mad? The problem isn’t with me, it isn’t with you, its not even the company’s coupon/ sale policy. The problem is the insatiable and inane life style of mass consumption in order to demonstrate high value of our identity expression in attempt to fill voids within our emotional and spiritual well being. Our life style constructed by capitalism, with help from mainstream media, is destroying ourselves and the planet.

My job makes me want to kill myself and Im working 10 hours today (rant over).


Corner Store Cocks

I’m walking down my street
the lords of Flatbush see me
in my sun dress cause it 90 degrees
trying to buy a drink & papers
all i want is to roll some trees
corner stores boys cat call me
they whistle at me like I ‘m a dog
so I guess I’m suppose to let em’
hit this shit raw mother fucker
ass & tits giggling out my dress
pretty young thing oozing sexuality
so maybe I invited all this hostility
But I never asked any one to look at me
My block boys call me snow flake
grab my ass & tell me for a white girl
I got cake & they wanna cum on my face
I laugh & smile as if to say its okay
cause I could scream & shout all day
but egos & erections won’t let them
hear a single fucking word I say
No point in starting a convo
with chumps that can’t hold one
I grab my mystic & ask for papers
cut in front of the crowd
throw my bills on the counter
tell him to keep the change
ignoring the hand on my waist
throwing white privilege all over the place
just to get the thirsty boys outta my face
I’m a feminist like Emma Goldman
But if she was blind, deaf & dumb
Ignore the glares & act unfazed
Get home, roll joints, bumping KRS ONE
My mind is right & my body is tight
but I guess I’m only good for one night
Not gonna lie, some times I like that attention
But its my life’s mission to avoid the men
that makes you consent out of self-defense
that wants unlimited oral, vaginal, & anal penetration
These boys talk a lot of shit but sex aint sex
if you need to conquer some one
or you feel entitled to fuck whoever you want
I aint saying all men are like this cause
I know they can make emotional investments
and woman can be casual when there’s mutual respect
If these boys would treat me like a person
they would have a pretty good shot
but they too busy thinking with their cocks.
Wondering why men can’t take me out to eat
before trying to get me out my jeans
But gotta stop trying to figure this shit out
I could do this all day & only be left with stems & seeds
I guess my mama was always right
the good men are harder to find

Random thoughts

– I grew up  around powerful successful  strong men. I used to  think I wanted to  be  like them. I dreamed of getting that amazing job  with the corner office and my  name on the door. But now  that  I’m older, I realize I don’t want  to  be  like those men. I  want  one  of those men.  I want  to  blush  and smile passively as  the man  in his suit buys me a drink.  I want  to  fold his shirts and cook  his dinner. I want to  feel those rough  working hands on my skin. I want to  him  to  be able to  have  who ever  he wants, but he chose me.

– I invest myself in other people. All my love. All  my life. Every thing. But, no  one ever invests in me back. It makes its impossible to  feel  loved.  It  makes its impossible to feel  alive. Any thing I do or say  has no consequences. No  reactions. Not because it is not important. But because  it never happened.  I don’t feel  real  so  I must  not exist.
Most days, I feel Im a typewriter surrounded by MacBooks. I just can’t compete any more. I just sit collecting dust, while the rest of the world gets the job done.

– You take my finger prints and trade them in. Does this flesh and bone feel the same? I’ll spend the afternoon on top of you. If I taste the same will you promise you’ll always stay? I’ll spend the night and lose my mind. You’re wearing me thin. Even so I grow to love you more. I have wishful thinking, while you hang your head and watch the floor. I need to win this endless war. I spend all these nights losing sleep. Wondering, why you killed all the lady bugs? Who do you love? And who loves you more? Thoughts drag me off shore and I’m on my way down. I’m learning to swim as I drown. If I survive will you promise you’ll never go? You roll your eyes and I’m not surprised.

– We all know the waitress in the diner eternally pouring shit coffee. She thinks her forced smile is all she has to offer. She is from a small town and thinks of people in terms of color. Serving eggs and French fries to stoned teenagers is all she’ll ever do. She is unaware of her potential to shape the world. No one has ever given her the corny speech of how you can be any thing you want to be. She is eagerly waiting for a man to allow her to trade her body in for a ring. But, every one knows she will never see last night’s lovers ever again. So many men have made her feel like a newborn baby abandon in a dumpster, exhaling its last breath with arms desperately reaching out. But, her faith that God will send her a man in his own image has never broken, unlike her heart. The idea that it may never happen does not cross her mind. A man calls her over, as she brings me my check. She rushes over to him. She fingers her cross that hangs around her neck, as if to thank Jesus. Her cigarette stained smile widens as he takes her out to his truck. I know she does, but I really hope she does not think that he is “the one”. I want to tell her that she does not need him. That she is beautiful and strong. She is better than this. But, I just put my cash on the table, take my last sip of coffee and silently walk away.

Why I am so hung up on him?

Why I am so hung up on him?
It’s simply really. Fucked, but simple.

In the beginning he looked at me with passion and desire, and then out of nowhere it was gone. He was the first boy that I had sex with that I honestly desired and one of the few that didn’t force me to do any thing. He was the first man to look at me like I was a person that he truly enjoyed. He was every thing I’ve always wanted, but thought I wasn’t good enough for. He made me feel good about being me. He saw value in me. But he didn’t want me after a while for a reason he claimed he couldn’t explain. He thought it would be a bad idea if we kept having sex because…. he does not know, he just thinks it’s not a good idea. I wish he would just tell me why because it’s really confusing with my experiences. I’m used to the guys I like not liking me back but they still have sex with me. This guy was the first one to refuse me sexually and I can’t figure it out. I’ve had guys I don’t like stalk me and sexually assault me, and offer to pay me. I don’t understand how some guys force me to be with me, but he doesn’t want me. It’s confusing, and it’s not fair. I want to have what I want for once (romantically & sexually). I feel like I actually deserve some one like him for once. I didn’t know how lonely I was settling for less than what I want. I feel like I will be upset over him for a long time. I have not liked some one this much in seven years. I never like any one this way so when I do I hang on too tight and too long. I don’t know who I am if I’m not with some one, which why I will probably settle again.

Take the Q to Prospect Park

I promise I won’t always be this way. Living in between reasons to live made me unprepared and unaware of people getting close to me. I want you to live in a house with me. My books and scarves are all I have to offer. I’ll drink cup after cup of coffee, if you’ll serve it to me. The caffeine will make us shake as we complain that we don’t know who we are. Our bed will be a place where we sit with our cat and laugh about our day. When its sunny, we’ll pick fruits and vegetables from our garden in our dirty barefeet. I’ll sit in my rocking chair reading Chomsky, while you play mandolin all night. We won’t have any pictures from our past loves. Only empty frames on the wall. You won’t look at me with Holden Caulfield eyes. Only your rough hands. You’ll brush my hair and I’ll trim your beard. We eat too much and not sleep enough. You have a stupid haircut, but I don’t care. I have a yellow smile, but you don’t stare. Like I said, my books and scarves are all I have to offer. But, you could tell me all your secrets. I promise no one else would never know. This house be could our house. But, we only glance at each other. never saying a word to each other. I promise I won’t always be this way. Too scared to put my book down, turn my ipod off, and speak. One day I’ll be brave enough to not be a stranger. We’ll take a walk through prospect park and ditch all these things that are eating us alive. Memories of past lovers won’t haunt you from a stained futon. I’ll buy a queen sized bed. You’ll build me a big house. It could be our house.

Your House

Your house


Your house. The wood floor is rotting. The ceiling leaks. The foundation is cracked. You never go inside. Spend your days fixing the exterior because that is what people see. lay down fake silver bricks, which you painted gold. Your neighbors will turn green when looking upon them. I’m peeking from under the cover from the drive way. watching you work so hard to solve the problem in the wrong approach. You come over. Take the cover off and start fiddling with my engine. I will never run. Only sit and rust, like every other broken down chevy station wagon given to a kid by their grandfather. Their immigrant grandfather who was burnt out from the world wars and nostalgic for the old New World. The grandfather who told your father tales of his life in Ireland and tried to teach him right and wrong. He obviously didn’t get through. The bruises on mother’s face were proof enough. You try to get me started because you are really ready to drive. Ready to get behind the wheel, step on the gas and never look back. I can’t. Burnt out from dream chasing too. Can’t take you down the road needed. Need to do it yourself. On your own two feet. Frantically turning the key. Cursing. Praying. Hoping. But, nothing. Slam hands against the steering wheel. The horn works. No longer able to hold back, you burst into tears. Exhausted from desperation. climb into the back seat and go to sleep. The back seat where you always sleep. You would not dare sleep in your bed. That horrible place, which you sat up all night listening to them fight. Nor would you sleep on your living room couch, where your mother placed you to be raised by tv. No, you would not dare go inside your broken down house. The house where you played chess with grandfather for hours. Watched A Star is Born with your grandmother. Painted and played guitar all day. Why would you want to go in, when you can remember from a far? A view from a far is unsharp & shallow focus, where most is unclear. It has been month since you have gone in the woods in your backyard. Would you even recognize the places a girl once loved you so? The river you swam in and fire to keep warm. The mud you held each other down in. Can you even remember a time you were happy? Growing in happiness and love with a friend. If she were to come back, would you know her face? Your vision is clouded from ghost of the past and fear does not allow eyes to open. She in your bedroom waiting. Visible from the window you blindly cover with fake gold bricks. You sleep in the car your grandfather gave you, but forget all the wisdom he passed on to you. He always said, “When opportunity knocks it is not enough to open the door, you have to walk through it. Even if it is not exactly what you want, you need it. You never know where it could lead. Action builds character. If you don’t do any thing, you will never become any body.” Open the door, go inside and walk around. You might begin to smile again, create and rebuild.



september 10th will be the two year mark and you want more. 

Move in or break up. 
I hate all or nothing requests.
What I want and what is possible are two different things.
So I guess, we break up.
For real this time.
we can get high off each other.
But, can’t remain good friends.
So we’ll make each other want to die,
to give each other strength to walk away & stay out of the way.
Maybe years down the line,
my name will come up in conversation
& you will have nice things to say.
And I’ll see walking down the street, I’ll smile & wave.
Until then I’ll hate you,
For holding my hips in your hands
and then pushing them away.

(Saying goodbye & growing up are two things we’ll never learn to forgive.
Not being able to let go & fall out of love are two things I’ll always regret.
Realism defeating romanticism will always break my heart.)

Meaningless gibberish

This is meaningless. I have no meaning, don’t look for meaning in here. There is no need for alterness, nothing will be thrown at you except this nothingness. I’m abandoning my aspirations. Why have I decided to do this? You don’t expect me to answer that? At least, not yet. You’ll have to wait. Don’t let the antiticaption kill you. Okay, I’ll give you a little tid bit, NOT EVERY THING CAN BE EXPLAINED. Think about that as I smear my blood all over your face as punishment for getting us into this situation. Let us let this manifest itself, until some cosmic truth is revealed. This will cause destruction as often as possible, but always with compassion. How do these things happen? Our communication broke down causing us to jump to conclusions. Our assumptions cause colisions. I don’t know how we calculate these things. We are fools, interpreting experiences that mean nothing. It means nothing to no one at all. I appreciate your lack of interest in these meaningless states of low self-esteem Every thing spontaneously repeats over and over in this. THERE HAS TO BE AN EXPLAINATION FOR THIS. Maybe that’s only how things appear to be, reasonible. This could be so very important or so very unimportant. Is this really real or I’m just imagining it? Like a dream? Whether or not it is a dream is determined by how you interupt it since it may or may not be real? It is meaningless to try to explain subjectivity. It means nothing to objective men. It is meaningless.

This rational way of thinking is abusing my intelligence.


This rational way of thinking is abusing my intelligence. Jesus Christ, spare me your opinion of me, please! I don’t see a mirror when I look up at you on your high horse. I resent you for making me feel like I’m not entertaining enough to keep you interested. Your attention span for individuals is lacking and your compassion is questionable. I live for happiness, I live for sadness. I live to die. I live in repetition moving through space and time until my powers of observation fail and I reach my final venue. I’m a product of the new world looking for truth, no matter how perverse. Your lies I discover make the truth appear self-evident. Even so, I still find myself asking, “Is this for real? Is the disenfranchised renegade mistaken?” I’m exhausted from my efforts to capture and internalize this moment. My thoughts are connected but extremely elusive, stripping me of my dignity.

To who I address (March 25, 2009)

I want to befriend and nurture. Veil your eyes and cover ears to shield from my evil sight and sound. Try to protect my body from your touch by childish tools so immature that they can’t even be imagined. Powerful hands reach me on multiple levels. You enter my thought, externally of course. Internally would be an annihilation of epic proportions. Intertwined under our uncomfortable gaze. Jerking back and forth, burning, sinking deeper until we form a single blur, an androgynous form of ecstasy that is unrecognizable. A temporary new language shared between us, our comprehension melts away in the mourning’s rising sun. Reality vanishes in your eclipse. Fully stripped to the bone, no embellishments, no tricks of the “real world”, nothing but what is making me invisible. Looking into my mirror with the blindness you have given me. Attempting self-reflection, try and try, search and search all the while having the ultimate distraction, you and my denial. You, my conquest are rigorously on my mind. Your heart is elusive and if that fact ever registers mine will never be calm. There would be an absence of purpose. The universe would dematerialize.