Sit down little boy, sit down little girl,

Sit down there on your stool

All this glitter and that faggot twirl

Is why you’re bullied at school.

Sit up straight, unnatural child

Don’t wallow there so glum

I hate that you’re my grandchild

You’re asking for it, are you dumb?

So what do you think caused it?

Was it something you decided?

I don’t understand why you don’t just quit

God help you, you’re misguided.

Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve

Didn’t you read the bible?

Two men together can’t conceive

And a mother and father is vital.

No, never again will we kiss,

I can’t believe you’re gay

I’ve raised you, my son, better than this

You’ve been led astray.

Hey, I’m not homophobic dude,

I have gay friends don’t you know?

But, look, I don’t mean to be rude

Can you keep your distance?…no homo.

Can you guys just stop flaunting?

Can you keep it out of my face?

Think of the children that you’re haunting

There’s a fuckin’ time and place.

Is it just to make the victim wrong?

And let accusers have their say?

While someone who feels they don't belong

Thinks, ‘Why am I this way?’

 Write about an injustice:

 Heart pounding, boiling, a flashing white hot rage of anger spills over, a tidal wave of        

       unrepentant fury. I gaze upon the golden plains, the rising mountainous crusts 

           that bubble and simmer from the heat of passionate hands. What have I 

              done? What curse has befallen me, what sin is so great and so terrible

                  that it should so belittle me, so humiliate me? A faint whiff, a 

                     fading wisp of a memory flutters in front of me that frays

                        and fractures as my fingers stretch out, as I try and

                             make it whole again. Wafting, wading, will

                               my desire be fulfilled? Will taste rectify?

                                   I long, I yearn as a soul craves the

                                      loving touch of the familiar.

                                         The tender kiss of lovers

                                            embrace. Alas, should

                                               dark clouds that

                                                  blossom on 

                                                   the cracks

                                                    of mine

                                                     heart.

                                                        I

                                                      told,

                                                    begged, 

                                                pleaded with 

                                              them. Absolutely, 

                        explicitly, unequivocally: no olives on my pizza. 

The men decide to come at me-

A badge, a whispered threat.

So many move around to see-

A sudden deep regret.

My hijab sends a panicked sign-

Religion sets the tone.

A plane takes off that once was mine-

I'm stuck; now it is gone.

The men have placed me in a room,

My children start to cry.

"Do you have bombs to make a boom?

Do you want us to die?"

I try and tell them who I am,

And that they have it wrong.

Instead, they offer to me, "Ma'am,

You need to play along.

The thing atop your head tells us

A terrorist is near.

Now, don't you try and make a fuss-

We want to make it clear-

The color of your skin defines

A nation of unrest."

My daughter's and my son's designs

Are beauty at its best.

I stand and ask what right have they

To hold us from the plane.

The men have little else to say,

The whole thing starts to drain.

At last my husband joins us there,

But they treat him the same.

They ruffle up his velvet hair;

They do not ask his name.

They confiscate a "weapon" in

A pocket- plastic fork.

They say, "Where are your people, then?"

He says, "We're from New York!"

About this time, the questions stop;

A white male with a gun

Unloads it on us- pop! Pop! POP!

We have nowhere to run.

Injustice never seems to fade-

But look at what they do-

Remember terror knows no shade,

Be free, Red, White, and Blue ...

Red glow of heat

suck it in

flick ashes

burning tobacco

cinders into your soul

        it’s okay, it’s all right

you’re hooked

addiction to your brim

seeps in – puffs of smoke

        it’s okay, it’s all right

cigarette companies

promise it’ll be better

just use light ones

the special filters

         it’s okay, it’s all right

don’t admit

it will kill you

in little pieces

dribbles of life

seeping away

inhaling your breath

        it’s okay, it’s all right

can’t breathe

cancer cells creeping

hearts attacking

chronic bronchitis

companies never

admitting fault

free samples

hook the young

send them on down

the road

to tobacco addiction

        it’s okay, it’s all right

more addictive

than crack or cocaine

make that money

tote that bale

watch them drop

like flies

        it’s okay, it’s all right

untruths fly by

above your head

kills you dead

but slowly

insidious death

taps on window

you’ll never know

what hit you

Watch your

loved ones

slip away

tobacco stain

reminders

of fatal mistake

lies, lies, lies

cigarette makers-

you lied

loved ones died.

        It’s not okay

        It’s not all right!

    We spent our end side by side as we should have, but open to nothing, mapping our existence in your cynical glory and nicotine stained fingertips.  My eyes bright and naive in the beginning, drawn to your dark circles and fog and magnetized by what felt like a never-ending, beautiful melancholy of a-minor.

    The first time I found you hanging from the end of a noose, I lost all use of my legs.  I never told you that. Our child in my arms and too young to remember any of it, I dragged you down with one hand, screaming and cursing at you for doing such a horrible thing to yourself and your family.  You were angry with me, and I understood why soon after.  But I would never be the same.

    The pills were next, then your wrists, and after that I lost count of all of the threats, the plans, the attempts that never amounted to anything more than emergency calls.  I did begin a tally of psych visits, however, as my life became a sleight of prescription exchange after exchange.  My evenings turned from a sigh in a glass of blood red Cabernet to praying to God that it would not be the day that the rush hour traffic would keep me so long that you'd have time to finish before I got home.

    I learned when to speak and when not to, and I learned that it was best I didn't express any negativity around you in the event that my words would be the focus of your next attempt to kill yourself.  I knew they had been in the past, as you'd told me, and I began to pick away at all of the parts of me that allowed anything but a smile to peek through at you.

    I write you this, John, not because I want to make you feel guilty or ashamed.  I know you were sick, and I loved being by your side regardless of the circumstances behind what became an ever-watchful eye.  

    I write you this because I spent the last thirty-seven years of our marriage together in a cold well of silence, muffling my own voice in order to keep yours alive.  Every moment I breathed was for the one that you would tell me you were happy in our life together, in your life here, and you felt you had something worth living for.

    I write you this to bury with you because I am numb, and do not know how to grieve a loss that I've waited for over three decades to come.  

    I write you this because I gave myself into you to keep you from going out, but now you're gone.  Now you've left me - no goodbye, no kiss - having died of nothing more than heart failure in your sleep.

   So now I'm saying goodbye to you and your pain, and I will send it with you rightfully so that I may finally let my own take its place.

                                                                                                  Love Always,

                                                            Jane

The intentional grid like configuration of the streets of Manhattan is referred to as the Commission of 1811. The commissioners revered their design because it combined 'beauty, order, and convenience'. However aesthetically pleasing, the formation has a way of assaulting every New Yorker and wanna-be New Yorker alike. This assault takes place when the never ending streets serve as wind tunnels that violently whip winds through the streets and deliver what feels like literal slaps to the face.

This story happens to be about a particularly slapping wind in September. One that felt less like a slap from a drunk girl at a barcade in Williamsburg, and much more like the lasting sting only your mother's hand could produce.

Like the one I received when I was sixteen, and I told mine that she was weak. Weak for staying with my father when she knew he was sleeping with other women. It wasn't the slap that hurt. It was really just watching the single tear roll down her cheek and hit the linoleum. It crashed to the floor with what I presume to be the same force of a brick hitting concrete after being dropped from the top of the Empire State building. At the time it only hurt because I made her cry, now that slap hurts for a different reason.

It's five years later and I'm standing outside of a bar on Mercer street, with a boy I'm sure I love. He's smoking a cigarette. Malboro Red, actually.

I'm staring down at my boots. They're suede and have a pointed toe. Wearing them makes me feel like I'm cool enough to be standing outside of a bar on Mercer street, with a boy who's smoking a cigarette.

I was so focused on dodging the wind and convincing myself I belonged there, that I didn't hear him the first time he said, "hey look, we aren't exclusive or anything are we? I've been seeing other people."

I looked up, and he blew cigarette smoke into my face. I inhaled it. It felt like my father's mistakes and my mother's devastation crowding back into that pit in my stomach.

On exhale, without a second thought, I shot him a cool girl smile and said, "yea, for sure, me too.".

When I was sixteen it was so easy to see how my mother was wrong and the reasons she was weak. Even still, that night, I knew what I did was necessary. For the men of my commission I needed to make sure that I act orderly and remain convenient, so that I can be beautiful.

But by saying those words I had reduced myself to less than. I melted into those boots. I laid myself flat, preparing myself for the slaps of my future. The slaps from the city I love and all of my sort-of boyfriends to come.  

I winced as her long slender fingers struck my face, tears streamed down my face and my legs wobbled under the weight of my sorrows.

"Can't you do anything right, you good for nothing piece of shit" she bellowed.

My sweaty hands shook and a shiver ran through my spine even at that hot summer afternoon. Her words struck me as lightening and my sobs became the only noise in the hallway apart from her distinct shouts.

From the corner of my eyes I could make out the amused expression on her son's faces. Jagged pieces of the broken porcelain vase still littered the pearl white marble floor.

"No food for you tonight, you bastard and I don't want to see your face. Take her to the attic."

With these words I was ushered into a small room located adjacent to the terrace, reeking of decay and the dwelling for filthy rats.

I curled into a ball in a corner overlooked by the window through which light penetrated from the full moon, my sole companion for the night. Sleep was sporadic and fitful, my eyes fluttered open from the nightmares more than once.

Dreams of having my skin scraped of by my mistress or again getting boiling water poured over my hands interrupted my sleep.

Sometimes my mother visited me and part of me cherished seeing her, she never spoke but her emerald almond shaped eyes always looked at me, her arms always held me even when the world broke out in the cries of bastard child. When the dream ended her absence left a throbbing ache in my chest.

Tonight in my dream, I was waiting for my father on the doorstep, just before the outbreak of dawn and the minutes turned into hours but he never came and the sun never rose.

I missed her and my father who came, on the third of every second month and with him tagged along his children, the lawful ones. I begged to him to take me back home and then his new family spoke to me of the squalor they are living in, of the lack of space in their homes for me.

A media mirage

Convincing us to crave the quintessential

And aspire to the carbon copy ideals

Of painted perfection and aesthetic facades.

And this poisoning perfection sells.

Our desires are indoctrinated

And they look like flawless skin and size 2 jeans.

Brainwashed beauty.

A propaganda pandemic.

Find your perfect hair and your perfect size

With this new cream and diet pill!

Sold to our blinded eyes and closed minds

With exquisite designs and photo-shopped lies

As we pursue this superficial perfection.

Unparalleled.

And unattainable.

Because no one really looks like this.

But we have to try!

Embrace the incomparable and compare yourself!

Covet the exterior allure.

And when the results reflected

In our tunnel vision fixation

Are still lacking,

We will cut ourselves down as a failure

Before buying into the next fad.

Please disregard our intellect and understanding,

And, instead, fixate on our flowing hair and flat abs.

Because, in this story, indoctrination is fully installed.

In this story, corruption coats our skin with empty promises of perfection.

And, in this story, beauty is everything.

Tim Woods was one of those guys who couldn’t catch a break. Everything he did went sour. Like the time he settled in for a romantic evening with himself and he accidentally typed “Pornhub.com” as his Facebook status. Or when he learned to never trust a fart. Especially at a singles mixer. Still, every morning he’d wake up, look in the mirror and say, “Tim, today things are going to change. Today is YOUR day! Grab it by the balls!” Every morning he was convinced “today was a new day.” By mid- afternoon he’d be beaten back down. Some girl would trip and splash scorching hot coffee on his crotch or he’d have no cash when his metro card ran out and he’d have to walk home, or he’d find out the hard way that there was shellfish in the pasta primavera.

Bookkeeping work suited his shy ways and that’s what he did at a small adult entertainment shop in Sunset Park, Brooklyn. “Pleasures and Treasures” was owned by David and Harriet Hendler. Originally David wanted to name the place something like “Slippery When Wet” or “The Snatch Patch” but Harriet was a classy lady and back in 1978 when they opened the place there were rules about such things. So Pleasures and Treasures it was.

David Hendler walked like a man-shaped water balloon, jiggling with every step. He dabbed sweat from his hairy neck and flushed brow so often it became a tick. That Wednesday morning he had an extra bounce in his step and a gleam in his eye.

“Happy Hump Day!” Hendler gave a wink before slurping from the boob-shaped coffee cup. Tim peered over his readers which were held together with masking tape at the ear.

“Thanks, Dave. What’s up?” Tim smiled. He liked Dave. He was a good dude and a decent boss.

“I have good news and bad news.” Hendler squeezed himself into the armchair across from Tim’s desk, grunting until he got settled. “We’re retiring, Tim. Harriet wants to travel before we die, which I hope is soon if I have to spend so much time with her” he laughed but there was obviously some truth to his words.

“Is that the good news or the bad news?” Tim tensed up, ready for the other shoe to drop. It always did, and it usually weighed 50 lbs and landed on his bare foot.

“Depends on your perspective, Timmy old boy” sometimes Dave put on the Groucho Marx voice. It suited him too well.

"Harriet's cousin Julie is gonna take over here. We told her to keep you on, but you know. It's up to her now. I'm sorry we didn't give you more notice. It happened so fast."

Great. Just what Tim needed. A woman boss. Not that he had anything against women. He just had no luck with the ladies. They didn't find him attractive or charming or funny. They never seemed to have any use for him. He'd surrendered to the idea that he would never marry and would die alone with a load of crap in his shorts.

Sometimes Tim would get on Match or OKCupid and try to go on dates. There was the time he started getting close to a woman and they went back to her place. Right as they were getting heavy into it he got a massive Charlie horse and fell off the bed doubled over in pain. The girl laughed at him and called it a night. He tried to play it off like he was cool with it but... It stung. And it made him even more hesitant with women.

"You'll like Julie. She's smart. A real straight shooter.”

"I appreciate your telling me, Dave. I'm happy for you guys."

A woman with a gelatinous face framed by fluffy brown hair strode into the office and hugged Dave.

"Here she is!" Dave beamed with pride "Julie, this is Tim. He's wonderful. Tim, Julie, your new boss. I'll let you guys get acquainted." and he jiggled his way out of the office into the store.

"Well, this is awkward" Tim said trying to break the ice.

"Not at all. I'm excited to take over the store. I've been telling Harriet for years they should change it up. It could be a real destination if they could make it more modern." Tim looked her up and down. She wasn't the beauty queen type and he imagined she spent most Saturday nights with battery operated companions.

“I don’t plan on making too many changes, maybe brightening the place up, gearing it more toward women. We could do an evening of cocktails once a month.” When she said “cocktails” she emphasized the “cock” part and gave him a spastic wink. “We’re changing the name too, The G Spot! Isn’t that a goodie?” she laughed and he couldn’t help but smile along with her.

On the train home Tim had a renewed sense of hope. Julie seemed cool and he liked the idea of new energy in the shop. Maybe it was just the change he needed.

An old woman sat fidgeting next to him, distracting Tim from his reverie. She opened her old Nokia flip-phone then flipped it closed again. She did this repeatedly for a while then turned to him and said “Every time the train stops in the tunnel I get really scared this is it." Her voice quivered, "Is this it?” Tim tried to comfort her, letting her know they would be just fine. She rambled on about her anxiety and that she felt like she was losing her mind. Her eyes went wild and her head shook. He didn’t even see the straight razor coming when she slashed his throat right there on the R train during rush hour. Nobody noticed Tim’s corpse traveling back and forth from Brooklyn to Queens until after 2 am when the train stopped short and he flopped over on his side and tumbled to the floor.