sick

We are sick!
We are sweating, chills, feaver, headache, amazingly sick.
We are so sick we haven't left the house in days, because we don't feel like it and we don't want to infect the world.
He is sicker than I am.
We know we'll get better, just not when.
love and light
S.

MANIFESTATION

(print version)

by Shana Young

I work with ladies: not women.

See, I am a woman

I can

pee outside without getting my socks wet.

I can place a bet.

I can gut a deer.

I can bring good cheer.

I can suck a golf ball through a garden hose.

I can and buy my own damned drinks.

I am a woman.

But I said LADIES.

They have french manicures on their overlong toes nails

and THEY

would not survive in the wild.

I mean,these are ladies.

they drive mini-vans and suv's

with bumper stickers that proudly pronounce

"my kid is an honor student at who gives a shit elementary."

I work with ladies: therefore, I am annoyed.

They go thru fads,

like cabbage soup diets

and botox

and pilates.

(Because apparently 2 thousand years of yoga isn't good enough for them), they have

pilates.

I hate fads.

Their current fad is to "visualize" perfect bodies.

So now they sit around (on the clock)

and drink diet sodas

and attempt to vizualize perfect bodies.

Now they aren't vizualizing perfect bodies

in that whole

jerking the gerkin

flicking the bean

let's take Johnny Dep and

Brad Pitt and

rub them together for a hot sweaty

bit of homo-erotic fan fiction fun...

oh no....

They are sitting around

swilling the diet soda of mediocrity

and vizualizing their OWN

perfect bodies.

They say they want too become creatures of their own creation.

Now Honey,

I am an orphan,

who at 15 years old

was an emancipated minor in Belton Texas

with a job in a biker bar,

a taste for pussy,

a magenta flat top,

and 3.9 gpa.

I am a creature of my own creation

and I fucking disdain

dabblers!

These Bitches waste time attempting to manifest

will into flesh

and can not muster the energy

to pronounce the entire word carbohydrate?

Carb!

carb!

carb!

Like chickens pecking for worms.

They throw around the word “manifestation”.

Like it’s cheap.

They say they’re gonna “manifest”.

Like these weak-ass

overly- made-up

shallow cows could manifest

anything more than a faked orgasm

and an overcharge on their gold card.

The want to manifest will into flesh

and all they want if a firm ass?

That is not what manifestation if for!

NO, it is a waste of just the whisper of the word

and it and they and

probably some of you make me sick!!!!

Let me tell you about Manifestation...

In My manifested world

They would choke on the Soda of Mediocrity

as I sore above on my manifested wingspan

of 9 foot bat wings,

with an iridescent flame job

the likes of which

would give the entire population of

E. LA an

instant art-inspired Erection!

The blight of my passing would end

all Gang related violence

for at least the length of one very large,

never to be mentioned again

rough-fumbling, bumbling, circle jerk

as I flew overhead

laughing napalm

that landed as rose petals.

My honey-tongued sighs

Would impart an allergy to Methamphetamines characterized

by copious explosive and extremely painful diarrhea.

And Anyone glimpsing even

The hint of my screaming shadow

develops the inability to synthesize alcohol.

Because after all,

I am a Queen to be Loved and Feared,

And I've never cared for Drunks

but I fucking hate tweekers.

My hair would be a mass

of writhing wailing prehensile curls

with a bad attitude

And a tendency to

crawl up your nose

To fuck your sinuses and

Pluck out particularly annoying Personality traits.

Such as talking loudly while poets are on stage

Not tipping barristias and holding your mouth too tight

In that universal "I give bad head" configuration.

My skin would be a

smooth matte gray, impregnated with a million million

Chromatophores (look it up),

So my mood would be a Neon broadcast that said,

"don't start none and there won't be none"

There would be venom in my spit,

And I'd kiss indiscriminately,

(more indescriminately than I do now)

Leaving writhing,

willing poisoned Strangers in my wake.

They'd lie shouting brave, brave love.

Die spouting prophecy

of impending doom.

They would arise able to make magick at will.

Inspired with pure joy they

would be reborn,

sprouting prophecy

of impending

worlds free of gloom and doom

and finally, be able to

balance their checkbooks

and use their turn signals.

And my eyes?

My eyes would stay the hard chill gray They are today.

My fingers would leave tattoos.

I'd draw arcane symbology

of tantric mythology

on the

foreheads of

Investment Bankers,

Human resources managers

Stockbrokers

and Especially A&R people.

And I'd write love Poetry on the skin of everyone I touched

And I would touch often!

My breath

would soften the hardest heart.

I'd part armies of conservative

darkness with the tongues

of thin black-clad bi-sexual men.

I’d do this out,

Out of pure unadulterated spite,

winning contrite peace

with each orgasm.

Because it's true:

nobody gives head like a Goth Boy.

I'd overrun the night with the impassioned crying

of the final dying of

the concept that

we are born in shame.

And Thus I'd win us a true brave new World.

My sweat would destroy the concept of sin.

And I'd bring in

each Spring

singing

the knowledge

that each of you is a GOD.

And that!

you fucking

half-assed

mish-mash

Dabblers

Is what manifestation is for!

But I suppose

a Diet soda

and a thin ass

is all some of you deserve.