A downward, acrossward, diagonalward
spiral
Set into motion
by forces within our control
So subtle in their beginnings
now subtle as PENIS
in black sharpie
across my face

First of all, I need to tell the world that Deepak Chopra
ain't no saint.
He came in all sunshine and flowers
But now, as the ashes are in our mouths
And the dust covers every footprint
we lay down
He has fallen (from grace) in my eyes

But I have moved on

I won't tell you how it ended
and I won't say how it began
And I'm not saying that the digitally-aged version of
Suri Cruise
or even myself
are blameless in all this
But the cards
are the cards
And the chips
are the chips
And they've been played
And they've fallen
Where they may

Abriged version
told not in the style of
Edgar Allen Poe
goes like this:

Deepak Chopra, a bromide, takes
my boyfriend out
too many nights of the week
to go to "The Center"
But not really
In all actuality
they are out, in his words,
"Trolling for Twat"

Quote: These bitches don't know Siddhartha from Shinola! Stick with me my broham and weez gonna teach them the Seven Spiritual Laws Of Success…..IN OUR PANTS!! Khalil Gibran got nothing on me!

And my boyfriend became Deepak's wingman
became infected
with the crabs
bringing them home to me
like flowers
to Sunday dinner
Fucker

In the meantime,
I can't lie
The digitally-aged version of
Suh
Suh
Suri Cruise
Had me scantily clad
and whored up good
riding shotgun
in her dad's black Lexus SC 430
Laughing at my maternal waggling finger
Scolding
As she ditched her
panties out the tinted car window
Got us into every club
we wanted to be seen at
Progressively fondling more
and more
hard ons
with each dance floor our
Jimmy Choo's made love to
Til the breaka
dawn

Much like Deepak
I too
was no saint.

And there are no spiritual
handouts
You must pound the pavement
and earn them in an honest fashion

Which is what I will be
doing
henceforth
Only now,
returning home
after a hard day
To a home empty
once shared
making the second application
of Crab-Be-Gone
to my Hitler-esque bush
cursing the Deepak's
and the digitally-aged Suri's
but all along knowing
we only have us
to blame

Tracy leads an anonymous Internet life because most things she writes would probably make her mother cry.  But if she ever wanted to make her mother cry, she would direct her to Zygote In My Coffee, the fantastic Cherry Bleeds, or Laist.com.   Tracy currently resides in Southern California, but was born and raised in San Francisco.  Every time she goes back to visit, she walks 24th Street to see how things have changed . She misses the huge black hobo with the gross foot.
notimetosayit@gmail.com"