His

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There’s a place
reserved just for him.
It’s not hidden.
No other bodies lie there.
A feeling-
bare walls.
Open door.
I think his eyes made it.
I say what I intend to say,
to say this affection, affectionately
not affected is true,
this sayable place that
is his.

-Tosha Michelle

and on and unrelated note
my cover of John Lengend’s “All Of Me”

Human- The Name of Her Being

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Imagine the soulless trafficker
holding a young girl’s life in his hands.

Imagine the young girl in front of him,
eyes glazed from the heroin
he’s forced her to inject.

The unturned years stolen.

Her body’s lexicon
the clamor of sharks to blood,
the swarm of hornets.

Raped. Beaten. Used up.
Innocent debased.

He’s taken it all.
Leaving burnt trunk and a once
flourishing root decimated.

Imagine sprayed bullets,
sparkling on the
grimy warehouse floor.

Imagine the now bulging
eyes of the child, the girl
who doesn’t stop being dead.

The tragic wreckage of greed
splayed on the ground.

Let her gone dreams haunt you.
Don’t allow her to become
an apathetic byte on the news,
incapable of ruining your family’s dinner.

For a moment at least,
be conscious, not comfortable.

Allow her to bare her teeth
and demand that you see her loss.

This child, born into a world
she couldn’t overcome.

Let her eyes be a memory,
that the universe
isn’t always civilized
or wash and wear

Let her blood spill on everything,
the table cloth, the fine china,
the prettily pressed clothes.

See her. Feel her pain.
Let her shadow be your shadow.
If only for a moment, look back.

Hear her whispering her name.
Let her name be your name.
Human. The name of her being.
The name of your being.

-Tosha Michelle

All American Girl

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I wish I could look through fog,
live the serene life
be content to catch
the sun I can.

I, who’ve been pressed
and molded into
some American dream,
feel more confined
than liberated.

The back story- I’m more
a wanderer than a watcher
More enticed by the exotic
than familiar. I confess.
I’m unsettled.

Today’s wind tugs at me.
The sky urges me to fly.
My mouth hungry for the nectar
of fallen fruit

Inside my heart, an escape plan.
Outside my body glued
to habit and structure.

Rebellion turns my head.
It clings to me like mist.

Briefly, my ribs expand and
I flutter before reality
pulls me back.
Heaving then settling.
Leaving me with
the sticky aftereffects
and in that interlude,
I know my soul would soar
if my mind would only
let it.

-Tosha Michelle

My cover of “Underneath” by Adam Lambert. This song has so much meaning for me. (Dedicated to Heather, Niles, Jane, Terry, Larry, Jennifer,Ian, Diane and all my lovely friends. Thanks for putting up with me.

Self Help to Self Harm: The Dubious Guide to Life, Love, and Relationships

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This is an excerpt from a silly little book I wrote called Self Help to Self Harm: The Dubious Guide to Life, Love, and Relationships. You can find it on Amazon. But save your money, a lot of it can be found here on this site. I suck at self promotion. It’s okay, because I’m so good everything else. I’m kidding.

Men, what you need to know about women:

1. We women like to be taken, but not in a way that requires our fathers to bring out their particular set of skills. You know, the ones they have acquired over their long career. No, we want be taken up against the wall, on the dinning room table, the bathroom counter, on your desk, etc. We love to feel wanted and desirable. Dominate us in the sexiest way possible.

2.Tears are not a sign of weakness. It’s OK to be sensitive (unless you’re crying because you have nothing to wear, or you missed a “Real Housewives” episode)

3 There are two places tighty whities belong, on babies, or in the trash.

4. The vacuum cleaner and mop will not bite you. Go ahead, try them on for size. I dare you.

5 Sometimes all we need to hear is “No, honey, let me do it.”

6.Cologne is sexy, but no need to bathe in it.

7. A kiss on the hand at the right time can be quite lovely, at the wrong time, equally as creepy.

8. By all means, be the man in the relationship when it comes to killing bugs, or opening jars. We don’t mind.

9. However, never tell us what to do. EVER!

10. We want to be your muses but not in a sleazy photographer kind of way. We long to bring out your inner Shakespeare, not Larry Flynt.

11. Withhold nothing. We need to know where all the carbon goes, and why prime numbers remain a mystery. I’m looking at you, Riemann hypothesis. Why is it all so weird? Oh, and everyone you have ever dated, and what you had for lunch, and how your day was, and what your brother said on the phone. Etc
.
12. Your mother was right, manners matter. Prove to us chivalry is not dead.

13. Please don’t tell us to calm down. You calm down!

14. I mentioned this last time but felt the need to reiterate, no, we do not want to see a picture of the little engine that could. Keep it wrapped up, buddy, until sexy time (which reminds me, never call sex, sexy time.)

15. Just because your friends might find us appealing doesn’t mean we want to to be with them. (unless your friends are Timothy Olyphant or Jon Stewart)

16. Please talk about your feelings. We want to know what’s going on in those heads of yours. However, we don’t have to have a come to Jesus meeting or an Oprah moment.

17. Douchebaggery is never a winning look. Wear compassion and humanity instead.

18.There’s nothing hotter than a man with tools, unless it’s a man with a book.

19. We like wearing your old college sweatshirt or sleeping in your t-shirt. Prepare to share. It makes us feel close to you.

20. All we need is affection, attention, love, chocolate — and a guy with a big…………………………………………………………….

brain.

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Anything

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Please say you are lingerie
I can put on tonight,
the black garters
sexed, sleek, ignitable.

Say you are the red dress
I’ll slip into, the lining made
of paradise or the suede stilettos
cradling my feet, the straps
caressing my shins.

Say you’re my favorite purse
perched on the bed or the bookmark,
lovingly tucked inside
the pages of the latest
Sylvain Reynard
book resting on the nightstand.

Say you’re the sound of
Chet Baker’s voice
“sweet talking the void”
on vinyl, as I dance around
the room.

Say you are the blaze
of the moon, slipping
through the trees
peeking in the open window.

Say you are the air
suffused with the
sweet scent of magnolias
blossoming, petals opening
before they come undone.

Say you are the love revisions
being edited in bold font,
mating consonants
inside my head.

Say you are the backward
heat of my thoughts.
My body’s annunciation.

Say I’m the siren song
that will always call to
you, the music that will
never fade into the hollow
of the years.

Say you are the framed
photograph on the dresser,
the holy spirit of a
yellow tulip, say lace,
say wine, say peach,
say anything.

-Tosha Michelle

Gravity

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From a distance
I make out his shadow.
My eyes cling to the bruised
way he stands.
Below him lies a sunlit garden.
Green, luminescent.
The dew is so heavy it must sit down.
The breeze feels like a hopeful lover.
There’s nothing I don’t see in him.
Beauty’s edge.
The tip of grace.
The hint of masculinity.
He’s in my misshapen skull,
below the skin.
I’m drawn to his sensual gravity
I wish fabric away on a four
leaf clover.
Under his clothes I’m bare
I plummet. I fall for-
toward his sexy order,
Shifting heat, molten.
Release is found on impact.

-Tosha Michelle

My cover of “Million Dollar Man”

Listen to “Million Dollar Man” Lana Del Rey Cover (piano and vocals) by Tosha Michelle 2020 #np on #SoundCloud

The British Are Coming

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If you aren’t following this lovely whackadoo, you’re missing out on some pretty terrific stuff.(See link below) God, it pains me to write that. He’ll get that. You won’t.

I’d like to keep him all to myself but where’s the blog love in that? I encourage you to follow the link and the yellow brick road. I promise you’ll like the man behind the curtain. I don’t, of course, but that’s another story ;) Seriously, check him out 

No. 2095 – http://wp.me/p27egX-2Ko