#DiveIntoPoetry – GIRL GANG

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GIRL GANG

I am like a
vine untethered
there is no retreat
from the pain
you unleashed

I blow
whichever way
the wind takes me
caring less for
the who where what how
desperate for distraction
interaction
action

until

They gather
quiet
stealth-like
fierce
collecting the parts
I pretend do not exist
the hacked up bits of my heart
my bloody entrails
my eviscerated soul

They push
it all back
inside my skin
reaching deep and
moving things just so
unafraid of what they might find
the gore the ghastly the grisled remains
certain in their task
to love up on one of theirs
and make her whole

my Girl Gang

who listens as I cry
in the candlelit kitchen
over wine and whiskey
and more hummus than
one soul should ever ingest
then quietly insists
you could never handle me
I ran circles around you
you were not worthy

who types me a note
that my poetry makes
her heart hurt
and she hates you
but loves my words
then smirks and admits
she googled you
because she knew I would not
ever dream of doing
such a thing
and you are a liar
of this she is certain

who calls me
late at night
even though she knows
I hate the phone
to say she loves me
even if you do not
and that I will find another
more wondrous
more deserving
you were a mere
stepping stone
in this new path
called my
second act

who swings by my house
a car load of kids
bottles of liquor
and laughter on her tongue
fuck his UWS ass
you hate that
part of town anyway
plus
he likes girls
childlike things to
play house with
and you my love
are 1000% woman

who watches all this
play out
without much to say
because she has never
been one to intrude
then one morning
out of the blue
whispers across the miles
that you might love me
this she believes
because she met you
and watched you
watch me
but you are not
my great love
because that man
will know
never ever ever
to let me go

and slowly
bit by bit
I laugh and I joke
and I return
to me
broken
but on the mend
stronger and more certain
than I could ever
think possible

and I realize
I was wrong
there is a
retreat
from the
fuckery of you
it’s called my girls
they are my gang
and in case
you wondered
they will
cut a bitch


My #DiveIntoPoetry series is based on what I write inspired by the prompts of my poetry group led by the always-amazing Jena Schwartz. These pieces are works of fiction, maybe, kinda-sorta, erupting from my incredibly over-active imagination. They are unscripted, super loose, and free-flowing. They are perfect in their imperfections and I hope you enjoy.

Also, I have to send a virtual sloppy smooch to my Girl Gang – they know who they are and without them, I would not be where I am today: happy, writing, living my best life. I firmly believe every woman needs a Girl Gang and I firmly believe my Girl Gang is the best. In these dark days of Trump and grabbing pussies and men “handling” the women they cannot control, it’s vital to love up on our girlfriends, show our daughters the power of sisterhood and teach our sons the true essence of being a man.

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An Experiment In #Writing #ContemporaryRomance: AMAL, Part 2

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It’s been a few days since I posted Part 1 of AMAL, my little exercise or experiment or hmmmm…my dance around the outskirts of writing adult contemporary romance.

In other words, my book about humans.

Sexy, smart humans.

Sexy, smart humans living in NYC, bumping into each other, and of course at some point, fucking each other.

Ready for Part 2?

Enjoy.


CHAPTER ONE – AMAL

“Miss?” the salesclerk stared at me like I had three heads, her eyebrows raised in slight irritation, “do you have two cents?”

“What? Oh yeah, sure, hold on,” I stuttered, gathering myself and my bearings as I dug into my wallet for two pennies and handed them over, “sorry about that.”

Something told me the stranger was smiling, I could feel his eyes all over me, their amusement like a soft kiss to that special spot on my neck. 

Stop it, Amal

I grabbed my books and my wallet and side-stepped, away from his heat and his scent and his everything, without looking back or thinking twice because somewhere deep inside, I knew.

I knew he was nothing like the cursory assumptions I made about him. I knew he was nothing like anyone who’d crossed my path. And I especially knew he was nothing like Jackson. 

Nothing.

So when his scent caught up to me outside the bookstore on 112th Street, I don’t know why I didn’t keep it moving, and when he stepped into pace beside me, I don’t know why I glanced his way. And when he spoke, I don’t know why I stopped walking, turned to him, and smiled. 

But I did. 

I did all of those things.  

And he wasn’t blonde-haired and blue-eyed like I suspected, he wasn’t wearing a button-down, and he wasn’t perfectly manicured. The Upper East Side of my assumptions was in fact much more downtown than I could have ever imagined. He was tall and lean, with tatted arms and a skateboard in his hand, dark hair that needed a cut and eyes that stripped me naked with a glance. Coupled with that low voice full of gravel and smoke, he was sex personified. The kind of man that made your breath hitch, your nipples peak, and your pussy drip without doing anything but existing and holy fuck did he exist.

“Your syllabus,” his lip quirked as he handed me the stapled list, “you left it back there,” and suddenly he looked almost shy and a little nervous and not so super-confident-sex-on-a-stick-like and I relaxed and breathed deeply, because suddenly I felt able to handle him and his scent and his everything. 

“Thanks,” I returned his smile as I shoved the papers into my bag.

He watched me for a second, a slow and curious curve to his lips that was so sexy I found myself fantasizing about those lips all over my body. Instead, I held out my hand, “Amal Warrier Naipaul.” 

He glanced down before reaching for what I assumed would be a hand shake but turned into something wholly different and raw as he bent low and pressed a kiss to the sensitive skin of the inside of my wrist. I gasped and a slight moan escaped my lips as he held onto my hand a beat longer than appropriate but after that kiss, it hardly mattered. “Amal, it’s a pleasure,” and I didn’t make him release my fingers, at least not right then. 

“Well, thanks for this,” I recovered and backed away from him while patting my bag where I placed the rescued syllabus and he smiled and studied me and said, “Amal,” like he was practicing, then added, “god, you’re stunning,” and the Amal I knew would have instantly recalled her boyfriend – Jackson – and their love and their together-foreverness and all of their you-belong-to-mes, but around him – tatted up, skateboarding, wrist-kissing sexy stranger on the street – I remembered nothing of the sort.

Instead, I smiled and reveled in the attention.

“Goddamned stunning.”

Then like a light switch being turned on, I saw Jackson and his smile and and I took off down the street, very fast and very far away from that man and his tatts and his skateboard and all of his fuckery. 


So there’s your second snippet of Amal and Jackson and Andrew. Thoughts? Comments? Want some more? Or could care less? Because ugh…humans…they’re so boring.

HAHA.

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*photo credit HENN KIM

#DiveIntoPoetry – THIS PLACE

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THIS PLACE

This place is made of warm city evenings
full of wonder and surprise
sidewalks teemed with passersby
shedding the skin of the daily grind
buildings stretched to touch a sky grown
deep and soft pregnant with stars
and a bench
some whiskey
good conversation

This place thrums with the excitement
of warm breath
feather-soft touch
barely-there graze of skin on skin
secret places longing for discovery
sighs caught in throats clamped shut in the
silent bloom of ecstasy

This place holds peals of riotous laughter
in a dark kitchen cradled in the crux of a quiet suburban night
where streetlights soften the glare
of half-lived lives centered around PTA meetings and soccer and despair
all ignored and exchanged and never-existed
in this life of sex and words and deadlines and
all-consuming passion

This place remembered hours upon hours
of wondering where it came off the rails
and landed in a cesspool of incessant chatter and
imaginary but oh-so-real
cocaine-addled lesbian love affairs
because women were the enemy when really
the true killer came dressed in a bespoke suit
talked a fast game and knew his way
around a girl’s body and mind

This place burns with the slow drag of fingertips
across lips parted in a sigh full of longing and desire
where lust slips down thighs wet with kisses bruised and bitten
touch is like fire
skin scorched and aflame
bodies slide along ridges and planes to fit perfectly
into curves and hollows
pussy so swollen and wet and waiting to be
tasted and teased and
sucked and fucked

This place fled undercover of the night
before judgment came calling to reap what was sowed when
the rediscovery of wolves resulted in a run toward freedom and
away from the madness of bad choices and youth and maybe-love
but really hot sex
because what else was life if not about second-chances
or so said the fortune cookie pried open and read
that last night of shared takeout

This place feels sacred and reverent in the slow undulations
of hips and thighs wrapped around sweat-soaked
craven souls desperate for everything
each and every ounce of blood and cum and tears
soaked into skin so fair and so brown and what contrasts
come into play when the heart wants what
reality cannot comprehend much less permit
as the day-to-day has no understanding of
maddening intense must-have-you nows forever always

This place lies in repose
as if awaiting the redux
afternoons in a cafe
subway rides of shared private jokes
banter-filled mornings with pancakes and coffee and sex
kisses everywhere anywhere
all the while wondering
whether those moments mattered at all or maybe
they were one-sided and unrequited and all of the
I love yous and persistent aches and retellings of
Plato’s theory on soul mates was never meant
to be more than mere pillow talk

This place is soft and vulnerable and open
in ways most have never taken time to learn
lesser have quaked and faltered
assuming cold twisted black yet
hidden within the dark spaces buried deep behind walls
of snark and cutting commentary
down mysterious paths
pressed into cracks and fissures
lies untold warmth and laughter and light
rapturous passion
waiting to wrap around another
that other
the one

This place is simple and true
demanding and raw
brimming with despair
in the face of unfathomable silence
yet prideful and self-loving and
utterly uncompromising

This place is called my heart
there’s a seat for you
across from me
I’m saving it
forever


My #DiveIntoPoetry series is based on what I write inspired by the prompts of my poetry group led by the always-amazing Jena Schwartz. These pieces are works of fiction, maybe, kinda-sorta, erupting from my incredibly over-active imagination. They are unscripted, super loose, and free-flowing. They are perfect in their imperfections and I hope you enjoy.

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An Experiment In #Writing #ContemporaryRomance: AMAL, Part 1

bizarre_love_triangle

I haven’t been up in this space in a while and I can’t recall the last time I did some serious blogging – probably my Love Letter to Rihanna. I could be a punk and blame my silence on writing JUMA and editing DUTCH and beginning DEATH, but the fact of it is I’ve just gotten a little lazy about blogging.

And I don’t know why because I’ve always loved this space, but the reality of it is I’ve been scarce and the traffic on these pages has been minimal. Sure, I’ve posted the random poem here and there, but even that hasn’t happened with any sort of consistency.

This morning, intending to reverse this trend, I considered a revival of my “Thursday Thoughts” posts. Considered being the key word in that sentence because although those posts are an easy and quick fix, they hardly get me hot and bothered about blogging.

Then today as I was sitting in my office lawyering – and fighting with a Trump troll on Twitter – it hit me: AMAL

My little experiment in writing about humans and love and sex, my contemporary adult romance exercise that bored me to tears as I wrote it because all I wanted was to strap a machete to Amal’s back and turn Andrew into some kind of sexed-up, hot as fuck shifter. But contemporary adult romance is about humans and humans don’t morph into other beings at will and although some of us might carry a blade on a daily basis, it’s usually not a poison-tipped machete named Bonnie.

AMAL, my love triangle romance, or at least I think it’s a love triangle. It could very well turn into a ménage, mostly because I’m a horribly filthy-minded girl and nothing satisfies that aspect of my personality more than a little group sex. But for now it’s a love triangle made up of fabulously gorgeous humans who like nothing better than to fuck with each other…and fuck each other.

Anyway, this ditty will never see the light of day because this writer-girl cannot abide the mundane world of Manhattan sans magic murder and mayhem. So I figured instead of letting it sit on my laptop, unfinished and unread by anyone except my fellow WRITE BITCHES, Laura and Kayti, why not post it to my blog…as a series…of snippets.

So that’s the plan. Once or twice a week, I’ll post a little of AMAL, y’all can read it, and maybe if you’re feeling generous or verbose, you’ll leave me some comments, your thoughts, ideas, suggestions. Feedback – every author loves it, we never get enough of it.

Although now that I think about it, how fair is it to want feedback when I don’t know how much more of Amal and Jackson and Andrew I can bear to write…

But that’s a conversation for another day. Right now, let me shut the fuck up and post my first snippet.

Enjoy.


CHAPTER ONE – AMAL

We were young, fresh, and happy. We were laughter, light, and love. We fit together, everything about us complimented the other, we were everyone’s ideal. Jackson Rashard Davis and Amal Warrier Naipal. The perfect couple. Until we became a threesome.

“Every woman on this campus takes David Andersen’s course.”

Spoken with amused disdain, and a low growl of a whisper, masculine and deep, meant for my ears only, as if the fact I held Professor Andersen’s syllabus in my hand both irked and disappointed. Any other moment in my twenty-one years of living on this planet, a stranger getting so close, invading my space the way this one did, warm breath on my neck, heat at my back, would have resulted in all kinds of fuckery. But this stranger’s voice did things to me, made it difficult to put up my walls and lash out in irritation, so instead of stepping out of his orbit and away from his trespass, I found myself welcoming it with a slight curve of my mouth and a rasp in my voice. 

“That is because every woman on this campus dreams of fucking David Andersen.”

For two beats of reality, I wasn’t living it. For two beats of reality, I stepped outside myself and became someone else. Those two beats became everything.

The stranger chuckled and I melted and silently asked myself, what the fuck, Amal? Since when did faceless men with deep voices and perfect enunciation affect me? Without turning his way, I could picture him already: blonde hair, blue eyes, perfect haircut, button-down shirt, navy blazer. Upper East Side. Blueblood. Looking to amuse himself, dip his toe into the colorpool before running back to whatever blonde-haired, blue-eyed Chrissy waited back home.

“Including you?”

His question shook me from the thoughts banging around in my head and I jumped, only to feel his low laughter behind me. 

He was standing so close, like he had the right, as if it was okay to share my space. As if I wanted to share it with him. And I would have gotten mad but he smelled so fucking good and I forgot myself. Any righteous indignation I would have thrown at another who dared get so close dissipated into the air between us.  

“Including me,” I agreed with a smirk as I stepped to the register to pay for my books, hardly wanting to fuck the professor but definitely wanting to fuck with this man. He moved with me, I knew this because that heat and his scent remained wrapped all around me, making it difficult to focus on my books or my change or much of anything besides him. 

And that was wrong because I was Amal Warrier Naipaul, future best-selling author, current Barnard senior, girlfriend of Columbia graduate student, Jackson Rashard Davis.

Jackson. 

That tall, perfectly sculpted, dark brown, beautiful catch of a man who sauntered up to me in that club downtown, cupped my ass, pulled me close, and proceeded to fuck my ears with all kinds of delicious wickedness. I had melted into him that night, my lack of inhibition a product of too much studying, too much Johnny Walker, and not enough sleep.

We danced and kissed and dry-humped each other silly in that alley and just when he probably thought he was going to get some and it was going to be easy, because he was beautiful and women were a dime a dozen, I pushed his hand away from my panties, straightened my skirt, and blew him a kiss. 

“Goodnight, Jackson Rashard Davis,” I smiled and walked backwards, biting my lip and watching him watch me because he was too fucking sexy not to watch.

He stood in that alley, a crooked grin curving his lips, and ran his hand over his head, contemplating me and my blue-balls-inspiring departure. “Goodnight, Amal Warrier Naipaul.”

I stopped for two beats, then turned and walked back to him as my girlfriends bemoaned my change-of-heart. Grabbing his shirt, I pulled him down to me, and kissed him long and hard and deep. Because after remembering my full name, a simple detail almost always overlooked by damn near everyone who crossed my path, and saying it like it mattered, he deserved that kiss and because after remembering my full name, and saying it like it mattered, I wanted him to keep remembering it. And me. For a long time. 

“Call me,” I whispered before running back to join my girls and disappear into the waning minutes of the night. 

“I don’t have your number,” he called out.

I turned back one more time and smiled, “work it out, smart boy.”

And he did just that, tracking me down on campus, the same campus unbeknownst to each other we shared, because he was Jackson Rashard Davis, he was perfect, and when he decided he wanted something, he pursued it relentlessly until it became his. I didn’t require anything close to relentless – I was kind of his the second he spoke my name with that gleam in his eye. 

So why was this man, this faceless man and his sexy voice and his warm breath and his scent, good fucking god, his scent – why was this man making me forget all of my days and nights with Jackson, all of my I love yous, your mines, and we belong together forevers? And why was I Ietting him?


There you go. A little taste, a tease of Amal and Jackson and Andrew. Come back in the next few days – or a week, or a month – for another installment.

Ciao.

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An Open Letter To Donald Trump From Some Angry Women.

“We can be bitches. And bitches get shit done. Bitches Vote.” Fuck yeah, we do. See you November 8th. #ImWithHer

Drifting Through

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Dear Mr. Trump… can I call you Mr. Trump? Is that ok? I want you to be happy, that’s very important to me.

Before I get started, let me say this letter isn’t from all women. The Trumpettes surely won’t approve of this message. But this is from most women.

We see right through you. We have all known you at some point. Your ways are not unfamiliar to us. We see through you because we’ve been dealing with you our whole lives.

We heard you call women pigs. And disgusting. And stupid. And bimbos.

We watched as you called a former Ms. Universe “Ms. Piggy” and then spent four days continuing to insult her.

We see your weakness. Your lust for attention at any cost, your need to denigrate women. We see all of it. And we’re mad.

Yes. We’re mad. And fired up. And here’s the thing about us……

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