The purse my Mama
bought me,
I carry it like a teddy bear.
I’ve kept it for too long.
It’s actually uncool.
It’s not the greatest purse.
Wait, hold on there Nova,
let’s be fair and objective;
it is
pretty damn functional
and being black leather,
it is fairly versatile.
If I’m honest,
Mom did a pretty good job
picking out and giving me
my first purse
as a forty-five year old
now-woman.
I know some women
my age no longer have
their mom around
or they might not have
a great relationship with
their mom,
and well, my mom hasn’t been
exactly exemplary
as I’ve transitioned my gender,
but I do truly love, respect,
and admire her,
and she did give me a solid,
perfect first purse.
And so I cling to and keep up
with this bastard like it is
my favorite teddy bear.
Tag: fashion
I see the inhumane shapes
of women in shop windows.
I know that God exists.
I have to know that God exists
. . . as I see the inhumane shapes
of women in the shop windows.
Things cannot be made,
such as the shapes of women
in the shop windows.
These are of infinity,
burned perfectly in neurons,
and they are not agenda.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
You wear logos.
The wearing of logos
makes you
feel good.
It makes you who you are.
You are the person
wearing logos
with meaning.
Your meaning is
to be a person and
to wear logos,
to wear the marks of
corporations.
Corporations are
people too.
You give them a voice.
They speak through you.
In your sacred moments here.
Corporations are
sacred too.
If they are not… then why are they?
I want to feel small.
I am a woman.
I have seen advertisements
all my life.
In them,
women are always
smaller
than men.
When I played with dolls
as a little girl
the female dolls were always
three times as skinny as
the male dolls.
For these reasons,
I want to feel small.
I understand this to be love
and
emotional security
and the reality behind
economics;
needs created.
What do you think’s going on in
Los Angeles, California right now?
Do you even care?
Didn’t you know
they have architecture there?
There are buildings made for thoughts.
It’s causal and starts whatever
sentence
it wants with it’s.
In thoughts, a body made of thoughts,
this kind of place is this;
it’s casual always.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
The Greens Of Prolmama
that place by the sunglasses store on Sunset Blvd
has helped a lot of cancer survivors get that way
You’ve been that way with your teeth
to stop and turn to the mountain
it makes us look that way
the way we look when there’s just too much
Cowboys riding into the future from the past on a spaceship
or an ion generation device
They make nice clothing at least for the persons who want
to look like that
The Greens infuse my chest cavity
so I look up to see Andromeda’s aftermath
and the aftermath is ignored by all the mammals and the reptiles
unless there’s fire
we’re then drawn outward
to a journey that takes a long long time
I could count the plastic in the toy store
or a municipal dump all for an afternoon to remember now
when we kissed as men reading the Bible
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
Mature with me
Be immature
Hide the salt and pepper shakers
Grown old
Your bones
won’t have the chance again
to do stupid things
Fickle flicks
Preserve self image
The undead are dying
The dead live upon our breaths
The dead babies are being forgiven
in heaven
He has stale bready breath
Hide the salt and pepper shakers
Make rain
Look at the windows on Main Street
Down there she killed herself
ultimately
Mature with me
Be immature
Pull away
Now the funeral procession
heralds the west winded ghosts
and the cafe waits back in childhood
They’re tracing over couches
Your parents while crying
drove the car home
for their tender memories
past the corn fields and shopping strips
the red airplane hanger
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
We’re here
on the outside
close to clean air.
The green, blue, and gray air.
The beige tones in between.
The air of reds and greens
and browns in the colder
times of year.
The shifting things you want;
we’ve got them.
We shift them.
We shift you.
You want luxury, vacations,
wealth, and freedom.
We’ve got you.
You’re in our eyes;
your hope, your money.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
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