I wandered slowly in a crowd,

and often stopped to check for spawns,

when all at once I saw a cloud,

of nearby, new-spawned Bulbasaurs!

Inside the park, beside the stream,

frowning and taunting on the screen.

Random as the rain that falls

and soaks the trainers hunting bugs,

they appeared at spots along the trail

unfazed by bumbling, real-life dogs.

Seven I caught, that day, in all,

each with a well-aimed Pokeball.

Kakunas, I had scores; but they

out-did the humble grubs ten-fold:

A trainer could not but keep play

with such steals to catch and hold.

I caught -- and caught -- but little thought

what cost this game to me has brought.

For oft, when on my couch I lie

in vacant or in pensive mood,

my phone vibrates against my thigh,

disrupts the bliss of solitude,

and then compulsion in me grows,

and sucks me back to Pokemon Go.

Sometimes I steal myself away

Retreat in thoughts of yesterday

Ignite the flame--control the spark

Rewrite, recast a different play.

The car is off, the street is dark

Lit homes reverberate a bark

From some kept dog in some backyard

Or maybe from a nearby park.

The autumn night is coming hard

On heels of sun's abandoned guard

The shiver outward, inward too

I turn the key, tear up the card.

Memories, frozen, always true

But the mind can heat, recast a few

Imagination is ever new.

Imagination is ever new.

I was the monster under the bed

Tasked to scare her out of her head

I tried each night to make her scream

But could not wake her from her dream

I came early one night

And saw why I could not give her fright

The creature meant to be her father

Came to her room to be a bother

He would struggle close

Make her pale as a ghost

This man was breaking nature

As he did these monstrous things to her

I unfurled myself and stretched my claws

My shadow across the wall made him pause

I am the monster that you will fear

If you ever again hurt this girl so dear

She is mine and I am hers

Yes indeed we're both monsters

I am the monster under her bed

And I'd watch out or I'll have your head

Do you like what you see?

Are you lusting for me?

Am I epitome 

    of your dark fantasy?

How do I make you feel?

To deny what is real

Is it my mind or body 

    that holds the appeal?

How much do you know and

How far will you go

To make me reveal 

    everything I can show?

When will you realize 

This is just a disguise?

Remove the outside and 

    you'll just get more lies

Will you stay here with me

With the death and debris?

How long before you 

    will long to be free?

Can you see what I hide?

How much should I confide?

Will you love me if my flesh 

    is dusty and dried?

If you tasted decay

On my lips every day

How much devotion and 

    trust would it sway?

If you reached for my hair

And realized it was bare

How long would it take you 

    to no longer care?

If my death lingered near

Would it be me that you'd fear?

Would your bright eyes squeeze out 

    even one single tear?

I sipped the blue 

of an autumn sky 

tasting life's ambrosial  

memories in the wine. 

 I scooped up 

the dirt of earth 

and heard the music 

sifting through 

my fingers. 

I breathed the 

silent, silver scent 

of the moonlit frost 

settling on the 

dew-dropped fields. 

 I touched the 

smoothest satin shine

on a mapleleaf 

whose fragrance speaks 

into my fingers. 

I saw emotions 

roll a rainbow 

across Memory's 

stormy skies 

through transparent tears

It was dawn when they woke me up. Not the dawn with the cream-coloured sky and candy floss clouds. Not the fairy-tale dawn caressed by the mellow custard sunshine, nor the bright crisp chirping of exotic birds. The sky, painted khaki and flecked with dullness, seemed to have been the perfect setting for an apocalyptic period. Well, then again, I was in an apocalyptic situation. After all, the entire country wanted me dead, simply for having lived life to the fullest. 

I suppose I was living idyllically, unaware of the changing times. Unaware of the blood boiling in the veins of the country. People wanted change and I suppose I did hinder this change. But how can I be blamed? I was forced into an uncomfortable, awkward and lonely position that I had to make something of it. I had to brighten up my days, have fun, invite guests and create my own social revolution. I did bring change, but not the change the people wanted. Whereas I created my own social revolution and transformed the world of delicacies and fashion, the people constructed theirs only to kill me. I am innocent. I only wanted happiness in this world in which I succumbed to expectations. However, I made myself happy by using my power and wealth, but I suppose a woman is is alsways to blame in this world. Whose fault was it that I was married off? Mine. Whose fault was it that my husband was too awkward to sleep with me? Mine. Whose fault was it that consequently I could not have a child? Mine. No matter what I did, do and will do, it is my fault because I am a woman. A woman who must be responsible for all the wrong in the world and carry men's burden because they do not want to carry it themselves. 

They say I murdered the country. They say I murdered men, women and children. They say I murdered everything they owned. Why? Why am I to blame, to be executed, when the responsibility also lies upon my husband, my friends, my entourage, my society? Why, out of all of us nobles, am I considered devilish and sinful? If anything, I am the victim. I am a victim because I was stricken with so much burden, hate and disrespect. I am a victim because despite this, the world hates me, and despite this, I am responsible. I suppose it will be centuries before people feel empathy and love the underdog.

After they awoke me, stripped of dignity, wealth and power, the trial began. Whereas they had the world supporting them, I had my lawyers who were given a day to plead my case. They had decided my case before the trial, convinced I must be executed. 

Then, shoved around, they ordered me to prepare myself for my execution. If only they could kill me now. The unfairness of this world is too much to bear. The unfairness of being a woman is too much to bear. I was forced to change in front of my guards. Humiliated and naked, I was just a pale broken thing. With a plain white dress, they sheared my hair, stripped me of beauty and femininity. Hands bound behind my back, I became an empty vessel. I wasn't the devil, I wasn't unkind, I treated others with respect. I was a sweet person who, although lacking foresight, only wanted good. 

Unlike my husband, the culprit and coward, was given a carriage to ride in to his execution. Me? A simple open cart, under an ominous sky, where everyone could chant and humiliate me. Calling me names, I maintained my grace nonetheless, silent and poised. They may have stripped me of all my wealth, but I am, until the end, royalty.

Kind and loving, misunderstood and alone, my very last words were: "Monsieur, je vous demande excuse, je ne l’ai pas fait exprès."

Forever a Queen, forever myself, forever, Marie Antoinette.

sound echoes when

there's nothing there

to hold it,

and I keep bouncing

between the banks

with tears that stutter

on the way out,

so I let them fall

like angels

ready to rise

like demons from the dirt,

and my dreams

are murdered

by the creeping dawn,

and I can't click my heels

to get home,

just these dull thuds

that ache more

with each attempt,

holding a pillow

I haven't used,

and whiskey could teach

me to bleed straight,

instead of scribbling

bloody messages

for no one.

and it's me.

but I can't read

like I used to.

though I have

enough scars

so all you see

is a grin.

hello. nice to meet you. fucker.

will you join me in the field?

we can murder roses

and lay them on my name,

and you can give a speech

about the tragedy

of my heel,

about the sound of me drifting

as I run from mud,

tripping over the crispy halos

I let break without a fight.

and when it shatters,

we'll see havoc become confetti,

in a beautiful celebration

of wasted breaths

that shimmer on the forest

of my life,

growing fresh upon the rot.

"Serendipitous," I said, "Our meeting."

Her Bulgarian eyes flashed their murky depths and replied, "What is this word?"

I repeated it. She rolled the word around with her tongue a few times before asking, "What does this word mean?"

"It means 'by chance'," was the best I could describe it.

She smiled at this and her eyes thinned and her thin lips curled and she raised a shot glass filled with golden liquid. "To serendipitous," she toasted.

I raised my own and we gazed in each others eyes as we tapped bar with glass and drank. The burn was sharp but we held our gaze an eternal tick.

The bar was closing down and the final strains of Let's Dance began again.

Her face became dreamy. "You have the saddest eyes." She indicated one with a fingertip. 

"Put on your red shoes."

And we left serendipity sleeping at the bar.

A name has power, a belief that is shared by many culture throughout the globe. 

A name identifies you. 

                 holds you accountable.

                           defines who you are. 

It is the representation of you, the essence of you being put into words. Your past, your present, your very being. 

From your parents, it is a gift, one they bestow upon you when you came into this world.

    Your nickname, a form of affection from those around you. 

       An insult, proof that your antagonist notices you enough to hate you. 

    Epithets represent your accomplishments - be it for good or evil. 

Pseudo names, the masks - personas - you choose to hide behind. 

A name, your name, is your blessing, your curse, your bond, your liberation - it is your brand in life.

Without a name you are but a blank slate.

Without a name, you have no history. 

Without a name, you will not be remembered.

Without a name, you do not exist.

Nothing comes out of nothing. 

None that exist is nameless.

Now, is that disagreement I sense? So tell me friend:

without a name, what are you?