Don't Think, Just Be 9-30-10

Don't think, just be
To all the people concocting untrue biographies about themselves because they believe their authentic truth to be inadequate
Don't think, just be
To all the terrified people performing carefully scripted versions of themselves in case actuality is not enough
Don't think, just be
To all the brow beaten fat girls who never raise their hand and offer their opinion because they think their opinions don't matter
Don't think, just be
To all the chatty Kathys that never shut up because they can't survive their own silence
Don't think, just be
to all the soft spoken rage heads who play the part of the gentleman until they get drunk and then turn into pitbulls who have been fed gunpowder
Don't think, just be
To all the strawberries who've put three foreclosed on mortgages up their noses and are now chugging cock for a fix
Don't think, just be
To all the broken adult children who not only raised themselves after their parents divorce but also raised their parents
Don't think, just be
to all the meth heads quoting scripture through a veil of tears beneath the 480 overpass
Don't think, just be
To all the bikers who've ascended into heaven after 17 shots of whiskey and a telephone pole
Don't think, just be
TO all the languid acedemia wondering if anything they say makes a difference
Don't think, just be
TO all the Facebook addicts who go tanning because their laptops don't work in natural sunlight
Don't think, just be
To all the latch key children who clean up their parents' liquor bottles, roach filled ashtrays and coke mirrors
Don't think, just be
To all the closeted Pagans, Moslems, and Homosexuals whose every day of silence lets the white trash win one more round
Don't think, just be
To all the starving dogs cantering through foreclosed neighborhoods because their people have given up on themselves
Don't think, just be
To all the black and blue in relationships who believe love has to hurt
Don't think, just be
TO all the doughnut eaters at midnight who hide in their body fat because they think no one will ever notice them
Don't think, just be
To all the raging political activists who look for arguments where there aren't any because the person they're really angry at is themselves
Don't think, just be
TO all those people who planned ahead and are smug because they think they've thought of everything
Don't think, just be
To all the clowns that make us laugh because they are certain it's the only way people will love them
Don't think, just be
To all the aging cynics who thank they have all the answers
Don't think, just be
To all the beauty queens convinced that their looks will buy them happiness
Don't think, just be
To all the monster truck owners whose tires tear up Queen Mother Earth
Don't think, just be
To all the PETA activists whose meddling causes entire overpopulated species to starve to death
Don't think, just be
John Lennon once said that we are all crippled on the inside and he'd know, wouldn't he?
To all the terrified ex-smakheads eating Kombu stew and astrology
I say: Don't think, just be
RISE said another John ... Lydon
"Anger is an energy"
Get out of your own way, all of you
breathe in and be free
Don't think yourselves into a corner
just love yourselves
Just Be.

TITTY DANCER

Bewildered is the conscience of a dancer
whose unified self wishes to remain true
to a lover,
to family,
a social circle.
Yet a facet of the face must make love
to the masses;
each hungry audience that idolizes the mask,
she slowly exposes.
To dance is exhilarating freedom: My God!
And the shock value is immeasurable,
(it makes her laugh.)
It's a high more exilerating than some orgasms.
But who understands her?
An unattainable lover,
a whore of a daughter,
a friend in discord.
Only sisters in crime seem to sympathize,
in the communal silence they share as misfits.
No one speaks of it.
They only portray their portraits
in quiet, unending revolutions
of misinterpreted resignation.

The Fabulous Mirabalis

Wind over lake.
Swing out sister
on a farm
we share sincerity
weaving womanly spells
in crystals
for King Job.
We share gnomes
I am your angel
Face north
look on water
we there unite
Bring home brothers and sisters
feed their senses
on a cold clear night,
Black, Brown, Green, White.
Little sister
we planted a tree.

Daniel E. Rowe 5-18-1955 5-10-1986

Hello my friend, indeed
it's been a while.
Many dawns since faced without you.
I am now blinded by their brightness
and long since deafened by the firing
of futile, fear-filled hostility.

These soiled hands: my eyes
now fumble
through the raped and bludgeoned earth
our blood the solitary quencher
of it's spiritual satiety.
No one willingly maimed
is ever garanteed protection.

Hands fumble forward in the mud.
Ascending, I feel unworthy
for no hooves ever hampered my grasp:
I have survived.

Unanswered questions keep me restless,
sleep deprived in blood soaked mud.

What part of you was so damaged
as to lash out against your adytum?
When will I let go of guilt?

Atop the mountain I am handed a box.
I feel it lightly placed in my palms.
It is the answer I didn't find in time to save you.

When does suicide become the only option?
How can anyone function with so many psychic doors locked shut?

(How emancipating it must be to rip open and discard this asphyxiating physicality)

Opening the Mystics' box I feel it's contents;
notes and ornate hair combs placed on pale blue satin.
Hands now accustomed to sense
feel color and light
as it illuminates this pretty coffin
and me, on life and purpose
through it's token trinkets
of secret societies.

Are you still so bitter in death
as to not see the futility of your actions?
Must your morose skeleton remain so steadfast,
sullen on your horse?
Is there a way to show you now
this satin through my touch?

Barbie And GI Joe

I have always been a Barbie
And you're always GI Joe
We've learned this from our fathers
These roles we chose to show
Dad hated Mom's intelligence
ANd made damn sure I'd know
That only bad girls get knocked up
and trap their men
Now here I'm pushing forty
and still I am barren
'cause I'm the perfect little Barbie doll
for every GI joe
just shut up and swallow (their anger)
because you never know
which one of them will hit you
or try to make you show
how right they are in fearing us
each time our bellies grow
and we pop out more little Barbie dolls
and more little GI Joes
and empty out their wallets
'cause we got the skill, y'know?
So hush now and let me thrill you
I'll be your sassy so and so
I'll get lost after I've used you
And you've tossed me to and fro
And I'll beg for you to use me
The way men who hate women do
When the war that they're still fighting
Is in their heads and was never true
To the cause you gave you heart to
'cause they betrayed you for money too
just like the strip tease dancer
who gets sold for an eight ball of toot
so let go of those dormant memories
you keep locked in your heart and your head
where the only opponent left standing
is you and you'd rather be dead
and if you could you'd aim that M16
and spray bullets across your own chest
but the rich white men who sent you there
won't be remorseful, they're still cashing checks
and buying stocks in rubber and crude oil
that your blood helped them buy and invest
like me, you're a strip tease dancer
you're a pawn like all the rest
some days I hate the sixties
and how that decade molded me
to be a sex adventure
and hold non-conformity
in almost religious reverence
an outcast creatively
weaving translucent webs of fiction
out of emotional tragedy
a fighter in my own right
armed with rhymes and a shaved pussy
so let me be your GI Barbie
and you can be my crazy Joe
and we'll fight the good fight together
and heal those wounds that never show
the kind that keep you bitter
years after the curtain's closed
and it's time to go
Y'know?

FOR MICHELLE

He flowed into the room
His flailing personality
Erect
And so long and large
That we could only stare
And imagine how painful a burden
something of that magnitude
had to be to carry around.
I sat with my pussy posse
a harem of horny girls
all of us
Breathless and big eyed
each of us calculating
our chances of being
the chosen one.
As the elder however
I felt compelled
to warn the more tender members
of my posse
You won't be the one to change him
So put away those dreams
of babies and manicured lawns
He's an artist just like you
He'll fuck you and leave
and you'll feel like shit
because he didn't give you the validation
you alone are responsible for giving yourself
We all want to fuck
Let's be honest
But stop lying to yourself
and waiting for love
You won't die without him
Your heart is electronically stimulated by your nervous system
It will go on beating so long as you're alive
So depend on yourself
own yourself
take pride in your art
and the catharsis performance provides you
He doesn't mean shit
He's unimportant
But you are
You are not defined by who you wake up next to
or whether or not he stays
You are a Goddess
You alone must define your autonomy.
You alone are in charge of your rapture.

LA STREGA MORTA

It's not fair
that other cultures
should have history.
Art predating Christ
art coinciding with belief
belongs to every culture
except mine.

Documentaries expound
on one African tribe
after another.

Hawiian Dances interpreted
thus remain understood.

What right does the Vatican have
to deny me my heritage?

When will I watch a documentary
and understand myself?