a new century riding with a stuck foot in a generation of x’s and why’s all over the progress we where supposed to inherit. 1968 promised us in Nam. I am like a ring leader defending Brit to be both the girl next store and the vixen not shocked by Sinead O’conner with a bald bold head of protest and poetry.

An activist fighting hard for the supreme label of having your cake and eating it 2 without the need to hook a rich man to hire the nanny. We much choose one to prevent the pounce we put onto our lovers made to be responsible for it all. Know your place woman. No justice no peace with my hands up to the status quotients on my report card faded by age and time askew.

A garden ready to give to all when allowed by the office manager to breast feed in public. Ambition ridden under ground and neglecting the pachamama screaming from an isolated room for the grandmothers to arrive and set the record straight. Holding hands with the holy father who has been placed in an impossible position of saint to life of the working legit. 2 Be Woman. all whole. All holy. side by side with the daddy’s and the nanny’s. The load bare naked facing the split. the crack. the booty slap in sensual poverty and supple nectar.