Tag Archives: Daily Prompt

Top 10 Responses by Stars Asked to Become the Face of Arab Celebrity Activism


Darfur has George Clooney; Tibet, Richard Gere. With the people’s call for democracy, which celebrity could best serve as the Arabs’ star ambassador?

10. Paris Hilton, “Um, ya- like, anything, like, to help the Mausoleums.”

9. Victoria Beckham, “Do saline implants evaporate in extreme desert heat?”

8. Brad Pitt, “And adopt an Arab?”

7. Tiger Woods, “Can you sleep with ALL four wives at the same time?”

6. Justin Bieber, “Uh, underage boy in the Gulf? Let me get back to you.”

5. Tom Cruise, “If I get to play myself in the movie version & the sequel.”

4. Jessica Simpson, “I’d love to! I’ve never been to Mexico!”

3. Sarah Jessica Parker, “Sorry, busy writing ‘Sex & the City III: It’s Getting Almost as  Old as Us’.”

2. The Artist Formerly Known as Prince, “Hmmm…depends on how my name translates in Arabic.”

1. Lady Gaga, “Why not? It’s not like my meat dress is made of pork.”



Daily Prompt Challenge: Mad Max (Mara)


Men think we women get all gussied up to impress them.

Alas, though they’d like to believe it’s all about Steve, hate to break it to you, guys…

We love you, but we’re in the middle of a serious game.

The players: other women.

The finish line: it doesn’t finish.

The goal: envy.

Fashion doesn’t clothe, it guises. Every outfit is a role, corresponding to a play, each play with its own actresses. Many times, these plays do overlap, are staged simultaneous and the characters collide.

Think about it– men, due to their neurological makeup, are better at recognizing color and shape. Common male phrases, hence, such as, ‘the one in the tight dress’, ‘with short hair’, or ‘red dress’, are the summation of describing women.

If we were only taking one for the boys, we wouldn’t need our Chanels, Diors, Max Maras, or 15 pairs of black heels, the difference between each one unnoticed by the average male. We wouldn’t need a mocha, a light brown, a camel AND a dirty beige belt.


We need it, cause they’re our weapons. We maim self-esteems, decapitate egos, slaughter securities, kill confidences.


And it’s going on, right under your nose, everyday. It begins with a woman entering a room. Let me present an example…

Mary walks into a party with Tom, a good looking guy. Notice the first instinct is for the other females to scan Mary north-south, south-north.

This is ‘the size up’– it connotes a very important beginning from which the rest of the game will be determined.

First, ‘is she prettier than me?’

If the answer is yes, the gut response is A. ‘bitch’, followed by B. closer scanning of Mary in hopes of finding a less obvious fatal flaw. If one is not found, the next move is for the other women to approach Mary and manipulating her into fucking up, therefore giving them a flaw.

If the answer is no, the initial reaction is ‘How did she land him?’, immediately eliciting the women in unison to scan Tom. If Tom appears to have no flaws, the women will huddle and implicitly console one another, establishing a bond of commiseration. It would be something more like this:

‘They so don’t look like a couple,’ said Jane.

‘Maybe they’re just friends,’ Gina answers.

‘Of course! FRIENDS!’ they chide in unison.

Going back to the scenario of Mary having no evident flaw upon scan two, the wagons circle. Smiles, over-exaggerated, as if having slept with hangers in their mouths, the women begin cornering Mary.

‘LOVE your dress,’ Anna exclaims.

‘Great figure, you must work out!’ Jane jumps in.

‘Don’t really get a chance to with work and all,’ Mary explains, grabbing a piece of cake.

THIS GESTURE, the cake-grabbing, has now transformed the pack from observing the prey to pouncing on it.

‘You’re so lucky to be able to eat like that and be so thin,’ Lila seethes.

‘So what do you do?’ Anna asks, nudging Mary’s arm, motivated by subconscious hate.


At this moment, the pack will move one of two ways- retreat, but only if her job reflects her being an idiot, in which case, she’s ‘just another pretty face’; or…



‘I’m a rocket scientist.’ Mary says.

Though it seems the annihilation of Mary is impending, we cannot assume Mary to fall victim, as a very imperative factor should be highlighted…

Mary is very aware, is Mary.

That’s why Mary wins.

You men play to win.

We women, well…

We win to play.


My soul’s too old

To have Poetry.

The Ink don’t write no more.

Got a dictionary to find meaning,

But ain’t sure how to use the words.

I try to put it down on paper,

End up using the eraser.

But the feeling is still there.

Life gave me a story,

Don’t want to publish it.

It got nothing good enough to sell.

Borrowed my brother’s life,

Threw it in a blender with my papa marrying many wives.

Salted it with Rockwell,

Ain’t nothing misspelled,

Just doesn’t look like the truth.

Ripped it up,

Turned me into third person,

Made HER bio mine,

Spoke to a sage,

He gave me wisdom,

Didn’t listen at all,

Just transcribed.

Another girl,

Another life,

Another philosophy.


They’ll buy.

When it’s fiction,

They forgive the lie.

It Doesn’t


Does it end?

It can’t—

It never begins.

There’s nothing, and it’s all something—

But it’s not everything.

That’s what makes it so sad.

I shed sometime tears,

Between all-the-time smiles.

Every time.

I substitute an inane laugh

For an indispensable cry.

That’s what makes it so sad.

My skin has shrunk—

Or my soul has gotten a little too fat—

I don’t fit into myself anymore.

I feel tight around the chest,

I’m choked up at the neck,

My lids don’t close.

Being barefoot hurts too—

I could wear shoes—

What good would that do?

Covering what’s bare doesn’t make it less bare—

It just makes it barely visible.

I already am.

Someone once told me to just breathe—

(As if he didn’t, I would have not done it on my own).

It’s advice like that which makes for stupid holiday cards.

But it’s not Christmas, and I don’t celebrate Easter—

Don’t bother to tell me to ‘Get Well’—

Cause that’s a really imbecilic prescription.

I won’t ever stop wondering ‘Why?’

Even if I had the answers.

I always look for ‘Where?’

Even if it’s in front of me.

I seem to never get enough of ‘When?’

Even though I don’t have time.

I often think ‘What?’

Even though it replies before I ask.

I am always aware of ‘How?’

Even so—I prefer to kid myself.

It’s a vicious circle, or a pleasant oval—

Maybe an indifferent square, perhaps a careless rectangle.

The shape of it doesn’t matter.

It starts.

It doesn’t begin.

It finishes.

It doesn’t end.

Flaming June


Flaming June,

Riper than May,

Whose fruit is plucked

in anticipation of

sweet flesh;

Only half-eaten,

thrown to the ground.

Lying in a sheet of fire,

An angel,



from heaven;

No, no- not Rossetti’s Jenny,

sleeping between the

sheets of sin;

You are TOO awakened.

The peace of your face,

the spun silk of honey


And your velvet hands folded

beneath your breasts-

No, no- not pink-nosed from

the dried tears of guilt,

Wept by Fetti’s Sleeping Girl-

Not a Magdalene;

But a dove, whose wing is clipped,

looking with lament to the

skies from whence she came,

Only to return by way of dream.

Summer’s June, instinct presses to prey

upon the virgin flesh,

Feeding man’s insatiable appetite;

Flaming June,

not as sultry as July;

Bitten by December’s frost,

Melting upon the pillow;

The stung seeds of a spring flower

can never be sewn again.


Untitled 2


In a world

Where nothing is found

Where it should be.

Rooted in the flooded silt

Of an overflowing

Indifferent river.

I am here, but that presence

Is absent of soul.

When I tapped Time on the


And asked for spare change,

Time slapped me on the face

And walked away.

Why so harsh?

Because Time does not need me.

But Distance tailgates too closely.

He hides behind my back,

Seeking refuge in my shadow.

I turn to shadow-box Distance-

I need Space.

But even Space is too poor

To offer me a piece of breathe.

Space was robbed by Greed-

That fat man with green eyes,

Who wants to be fatter-

Anorexically fat.

But that leaves me standing

On the corner of my own life

Waiting to hitch a ride to hell-

As I had missed the Devil’s train.

But I had to take a piss at the station-

Does that make it my fault?

I bought a ticket,

Waited patiently.

But then God decided that the

Train to hell was too full,

And put me on stand-by.

So an old man, who saw how

Disappointed I was,

Offered me a joint.

‘Smoke’, she said.

And I did.

But how did I get so high?

Upon this cloud?

Dodging the stars

That rain around me.

Where does that leave me?



‘Of What?’

I’ve been very afraid lately.

The scarier part is if you ask me ‘of what?’, all I’d do is stare at you blankly.

See, the truth is, I don’t know ‘of what’. And with all my intelligible knowledge, from digging deep in my Freudian attic, to retracing my steps up and down, then half way up and all the way down, Maslow’s triangle thingy, I still couldn’t tell you.

‘Ah, perhaps, I am being too logical about this’, a phrase I don’t think I’ve EVER used in the first person. So, I transcended to the spiritual. In a very anti-Freudian trek, searching for my inner oneness, by observing and being, void of that false voice, ‘the mind’, in true Krishnamurti fashion… talking to God, opening my eyes to see ‘what IS’, versus ‘what I WANT to see’…

And though I have come a long ways, I have learned– excuse me, am learning– that letting go of it all is the only way everything comes to you, and most likely it comes out of want, not out of being forced.

For Christ’s sake, if by this point you think all of this has to with a guy, you couldn’t be further from understanding me.

We spend so much time running after things– stop and think about it, really. You run after a big promotion, you give up your youth, years and who you are. You run so fast, sometimes even run in place out of sheer anxiety that if you stop running, something will happen to you. You create other desires to run after, even if you are tired, and then one day, you just start running to run, from yourself. You’ve lost total desire to run after anything, but you just need to run.

I am so tired of running for the sake of running away. But as my pace has slowed down to a jog, a brisk runner’s walk, I feel so much fear.

And there are those who will say, ‘that’s normal in the beginning when you face your fears.’ But it’s been like this for a while, maybe 2 years or so. Then again, it is possible that on a macro-cosmic level, 2 years or so is the beginning of the beginning.

I don’t know.

And it doesn’t make me any less afraid.

The only difference in the last 2 years, is that my perception of myself and the life around me has shed itself of a good chunk of its anger and arrogance. For the first time in my life, being ‘the best’, ‘number one’, getting ‘at-a-girl!’ pats on the back… less consumed with those. I find I’ve been pursuing what I love, not really worrying about who else will love it.

The less I need of people, the more I want of the world.

There’s a great Jack Kerouac quote, which has totally encapsulated all sentiments and thoughts I’ve had that are shaping me:

“It’s not that I can’t fall in love. It’s really that I can’t help falling in love with too many things all at once. So, you must understand why I can’t distinguish between what’s platonic and what isn’t, because it’s all too much and not enough at the same time.”

You can’t be hot and cold at the same time; you can’t be black and white, light and dark, either.

How the hell can you feel liberated and still be afraid?

Moreover, how the hell can you be afraid and not know, ‘of what?’