Spree

I’ve never been a material girl.

I don’t obsess over shoes.

            In fact, taking the palsy girl shoe shopping

is task my seasoned assistants dump on my newest hire.

I haven’t worn a dress in three years,

although I own a few.

Even my inner bibliophile

            is mostly nourished during trips to the library.

Expenditure is reserved for things

like revolution, charity, and art.

And the push to elevate work desk

            that I adore from my advocacy-based day job

            which is reduced in price from three digits

too a much more manageable 2

in honor of the holiday meant to honor

those who sacrificed limbs, spines, lives

to keep us a certain sort of safe

in this place we call America.

                           

Clashes

This tee-shirt and jeans organizer girl

landed her dream nine to five

and is living on take out and ovenless, due to,

poundage piles on.

When new outfit is

needed to impress the guy

whose deposits equal everyone’s paychecks

my ethics clash with my pocketbook.

I’m a big girl without the weight living on delivery

for nearly a fortnight caused; I’m a size 6 only if a 2 precedes it.

But I refuse to spend part of my new salary on something

made in China by children or political prisoners,

no matter how appropriate.

Google yields a plethora of fashion forward options

in colors and patterns I’d actually enjoy wearing,

even though my heart still belongs to tee shirts and jeans.

But the perfect outfit requires

three digit expenditure to ensemble.

Langpo

Tree Breathing, frustration
Used to feel smiles

Consumption

Note: third poem in 30 poems in November.  Click here for details.

 

Since becoming a 9 to 5er,

My job devours my brain waves.

Hives and wind preoccupy and plague my skin.

I obsess over eating.

Free breakfast constitutes at least one muffin and oatmeal,

although it’s sadly juiceless.

Lunch is almost always a sort of sandwich,

plus a mix fruit, veggies, sweet tooth appeaser

as I chat and chew with my new coworkers.

 

Dinner is take out, unless I choose

prorogies, ravioli, or something boilable

because whatever Sunny Anderson promised

ithere’s no oven in this self-proclaimed, “Kitchen, kitchen!”

Snacks encompass a pathora of whatever is scrougable.

Petite

Note: I'm doing this poetry project,http://www.razoo.com/story/30-Poems-In-November-10, and need sponsors to meet my goal of raising $150. Donate and get nifty rewards.

Snow squall steals Sunday

Housebounding hog-tied human.

Claustrophobia!

Oeuvre Conflicted

Between the hullabaloo of my assistant’s video game based explosions,

proximity to the HGTV program I’m using as eye candy/white noise,

and my muse’s conflicting desires to craft

both my 2014 Nanowrimo novel

and the first entry of this year’s “30 Poems in November” at once

I am in danger of getting a savage artistic Charlie horse.

Thought solves conundrum.

I’ve agreed to compose one poem each day for the next 30

where as a winning novel needs only to contain 50,000 words in total.

by November’s end; no daily word increase mandated.

Therefore, a decidedly non-balladic attempt at balladry gets

first dose of available creative juices,

despite my male main character’s protestations

which grow louder and louder inside my synapses as seconds pass.

“Wait, Jamar!” I tell him.

“Quiet or you might not get the girl…”

Brown, end of adolescence, author my brain birthed months ago

is as stubborn as his creator in the face of whatever police department

has the misfortune of protecting whoever has decided to oppose liberation.

“Yeah right,” particular figment of imagination teases.

“Remember, I know what a hopeless romantic you are!”

The part of me, myself, and I that speaks to my invented mind people

blushes a cheeky main character,

but cannot call him false.