Thoughts from me, Stefanie Sere.


January 2016

My Muse, My Darling

One cannot despise their muse,

can they?

if she weren’t she, I would

love her

love her

wrapping my arms, like snakes,

hold her like a boa

driving all the way south

to maybe catch a glimpse

the query that which burns through

my heart

my heart





Let falsehood like a discord anger you… John Donne


don’t mistake her

transpersonal faker

she said she gave

heart body soul

let’s hope that is all she gave

she claims to spread

light and joy

but it’s legs she sprawls

come over once

a sip, a slip

she was an experiement


Commuter’s Thoughts


I sit on the boat looking at Brooklyn in all of its glory.

Foreigners, Lovers and Loners; we’re all here. 

Caught you looking at me . . . 

Wondering whereabouts . . .

my certain cells; you eat:

Red, Blue, Purple and Green.

She’s the same as me with

her big eyes.

Her big thoughts.

Her big dreams.

Her big hips.

One, two, 3 – they’re all the same. We’re all the same: Red on the inside. 

I’ve got it all over me.

Mr. Bowie, Ziggy Sir…


I cry. I sob, actually. I feel a loss for someone whom I have never met; someone who encouraged me to remain different from the rest, and to keep on living in a world of art and expression. I’m not too sure if I have ever felt this way about someone famous who’s died, but I do now. I had some of the best times with him, and he didn’t even know it. Or, perhaps he did.

David Bowie, you’ve joined me on many road trips; you had comforted me as I traveled down some dark and lonely roads (and will continue to do so). You had a hold on me with your freakness when I was just 14 years old, and I held you, with reverence.

As the world knows, there was something about you that struck the loudest chord which then reverberated in our hearts, in our minds and in our bodies. 

Latch-Key Cookie Love

cookie love

I remember the time when my brother wouldn’t let me in the house for a cookie. See, at the time, he had the key. When we were younger both of our parents worked, so the older child — my brother, Richie — was in charge. Richie was sole supervisor of torturing me, leaving me with black and blues for days. (Fucker.) I cried. A lot. Like, sobbed. It was sad. I wanted to go into the house badly — for the cookie, for the comfort. Not allowing me into the house, Richie forced me to sit by the door as he rode off on his BMX bike. I cried for a while as I waited for my mother to get home. Her absence made me furious; I wanted to break down that stupid door.

Our door to the house was in the basement; it was finished, as they say, with a huge living room, fully tiled kitchen, and a laundry room. The bedrooms were upstairs plus an extra kitchen (our old one prior to the renovations) where we left our salamanders in the sink (don’t ask) and played Life and Monopoly with our friends. The door was black and white (unlike life) made from a metal where if you scratched your nails on it, it would cause a severe feeling of nausea. Well, for me it did.

As I sat there wiping my tears from my eyes, I was thinking about all those cookies in that house. All the comfort I used to find in food. When anything was upsetting me, my mother would offer a sweet. (I do not advise this since it created a bit of an eating disorder, however, I now have it under control.)

While I was sitting there, I was thinking about all the love that poured out of my mother when she would get home from her lifeless job. I hated her job, but she didn’t; it gave her some power that she just couldn’t hold in the home. So she bought cookies. Lots of cookies. And cake and crappy cereal. I think she purchased these things mostly out of guilt for never being home when I needed her. But, really, all I needed was her love and kindness, and I was lucky to receive it.

We need nothing else. Love is always for the win. Cookies are just a bonus.

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