Posted in poetry.

Dry Tribe

drybones

It’s so hard when you’re the backbone.
Who can u cry to, if u ain’t got no eyes?
Somehow, tears squeeze their way outta da backbone, proud and fine.
That backbone covered up by a coat, so no one sees him crying.
He been taught tears mean spineless,
And he’d cease to exist. but right now damn all dat.
Drops of salty eye water itching to fall from what he doesn’t have.
Cuz his bones are dry.
And who can make nation out of dry bones?
Somewhere up in the sky,
For heavens sake, a little bone moving inside of a back.
a little bone moving, dancing
And that is his rain dance for eyes.  this backbone would cry!
Cry for his seven grown kids
And his lovely ex-wife
Only if he could relive the year two thousand and five.
He would have bent a little to see life from all sides, not be rigid and unmovable.
His own actions booted him.
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Author:

Now see, Miz RetroStank is so many different things (aren't we all?), but namely, she IS a Chistian, wife, mother, light, poetess, songwriter, actress, fashion show coordinator, scriptwriter, freethinker, artist, ATLien, and a weirdo with a love for culture and healing. She wants you to know that you can BE, DO, and HAVE anything and everything through Christ! She is native to the third coast, specifically the Southern kingdoms of Arkansas and Georgia. Sweet as pie, good as gold, and free as a bird, she is the only girl of three chill'un, and lawd, did that make for some imagination and shopaholic tendencies. Her father was an Army man and her mama is an infinitely enthusiastic and loving lady. In any case, exposure to different places, expectation of excellence, and a homeopathic childhood environment, majorly tilted her towards uniqueness; she was THAT girl who wore a dragon-print dress with a mandarin collar one day and a funky TLC-inspired look complete with ponytails and barrettes the next. So, by now, you're understanding that she is all about the spice of life. So sit back, buckle your seat-belt, and enjoy "the Funky ride all around the world" (in the words of Outkast).

Two Cents, anyone?

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