The Consumer of Nature

Consumer of nature
Shielding, conforming
in metal plastic boxes.
The ground is gray
concrete forever more.
Computers and phones
Light up every aspect of life.
Where the wilderness breathes
is only in confined spaces.
The color green
becomes manufactured.
A weed, alone, tries to make
a home. Cultivating
plants into gardens that emit
a tranquil type of beauty
while native weeds choke on toxic fumes.
One day nature may take over.
No more bare feet in plain dirt or bright grass.
Roads and streets;
The only place that meets
Earth and Sky
that shields those feet
itching to run wild
in open fields or dense forest foliage.
Industrial chaos
outweighs slovenly nature.
The more it is damaged,
the more it fights back.
If humans diminish, disappear, case to exist,
natural elements will only take over

once again.

Cover up the concrete. Flowers
poking out of porcelain bathtubs,
leaves curling out of toilets,
vines sloping and growing
in between brass and bed frames
and plastic side tables.
Nature will take over one day.
Flush out the HD television screens.
Weeds and things will live in
empty shopping carts, giant
plaster cracks, rotting leather couches.
Dandelions, the closest weed-to-a-flower,
will invade dining room tables, dripping
fridges as moss devours the shelves. Dishwashers
with wild herbs embedded inside, bathmats
covered in thick crab grass, rosemary and thyme
bursting between bookshelves. In closets will be
growing saplings, as trees shoot
out through high rise buildings,
letting their branches greet the vibrant sunlight,
pushing through glass and steel and wire
breaking up the roads and streets. Elevators
will stop working, become little garden grottos
and ponds will accumulate where conference
rooms used to be. Flowers of all colors will
decorate the rooftops, wild blueberry bushes
will replace office chairs, while dead leaves
cover the grates. Nature doesn't wait.

Look closely
each sprout is hiding
deep under the dirty ground,
waiting to reach

sunlight.

Immovable Ataxia

Satisfied
I am not
Satiated
I will never be.
An act of
Ataxia.
Plastic body am I.
Can be labeled
manikin, bust puppet
doll, statue, figure
wooden skin
white skin
wax skin
metal skin.
Wish I could be somewhere from here
A place where the conformity speaks clearly of abnormality.
Want to have veins coursing through my
arms
And not rope or string.
What holds together
is the thought
that one day
I will become
Human after all.

Until that day comes

My lips will be painted on
My eyelashes will be stuck
Like caterpillar feet
Like centipede stings.

This body made of
Man-Made parts
Makes proportions
immovable and unrealistic.
Stick thin legs
thighs that will never touch
hands, clean and tapered.
Breasts so symmetrical.

The absence of
hair.

My dream is to be real.
Not Hollywood real
Too much plastic and apathy.
Too much fake and airbrushed beauty.
No, I have never wanted something so much.
I have dreamed of crying
I have dreamed of sighing
I have dreams
dreams that take me farther
than the glass sliding doors
of this dimly lit store.
Just to touch
another
gently.

Feel hot flush against bumpy skin
freckles, age spots, wrinkles
thumb prints, moles, follicles

that would be beautiful.


I am not satisfied
nor will I ever be
until I can actually move my feet
and dance.
Wave my arms to the sky
and fly
out of the building and into another’s fleshy armed embrace.

Stiff Sniffles

Hairy women rebel rage
Attacking bleached and blond and brown and straight
and fake while pushing down hate
to love who they are inside
above all else.

Can a plastic model breathe?
Can a glass mask smile?
Can a hairless bust sneeze?
Can a marble bust compile
thoughts enough to think?
Can a baby doll really cry?
Can a marionette really dance
without those tight strings attached?
Can a torso even ponder
life’s existence with no head?
Can a wig stand ever die, or be dead?
Can a manikin look realistic instead
of stick-thin arms and legs
instead of thick heavy muscles?
Or fat deposits around the waist,
flabby arms that seem in haste.
Can smooth skin, so fake,
resemble or partake
in actual human existence?
Can dolls, all dolls stop looking so creepy?
with their glassy-eyed stare devoid of all emotion

So strange to wear
such puffy, frilly sleeves
in order to weave its little game.
Making young girls seem insane
to accept their own flaws
what they were born with all along,
instead of trying to “fix” what is fine and completely natural.
Our hairy bodies are our salvation.
Hairy women rebel rage
and find some appreciation
in themselves.

DEADBEAT EYES

The rings that pull
will always know
the deadbeat eyes,
so full of lies.
When plastic dolls,
their face so small,
grow up one day,
they cannot play.
All it takes is one mistake.
Then all their life is just a farce.
Painted on, lips and irises,
slices down the store
with one guilty stare.
Dead, they seem,
no space to dream.
A single image of how people should look.
And took, they did,
just like they should
until the store is closed.