I was born in a desert, below the sea level purple and bald. Third grade teacher made me draw the same tree seven times. My classmates hid a set of Care Bears pencils under my desk. My best girlfriend so ugly I skipped the kissing part. At 37 everyone is aware of my craziness and I see why. Long distance phone call with my mother: Remember you’re old and you haven’t done nothing with your life. Don’t get married just have a baby, you’ll remember my words,you will regret it for the rest of your life if you don’t. If witchcraft works, I have to congratulate my first drunkard macho boyfriend. Our four years ended with a curse: she will not be for me, the devil or any man. I write poems with guts and all my heart and Universities rejected my poems. I am not American born and I have an accent, but I write in English and my passport is dark blue. Last winter I made the decision to dedicate the rest of my frenetic, voluptuous and desolated life to poetry. For my poems I traveled to a pathetic poetry conference in Italy, and spent my savings. Sometimes I replace writing poems for my dildo, it takes me no more than 10 minutes then I return to read and write poetry and there is nothing romantic about me. I do feel the dread of others, Alas! I lack what the famous female poets don’t. Lack for friends. Like when my mother says look at your deranged face Mother you are thousands of miles away the farer you are, the closer I am to my poetry and myself.