Literary Rust By Rochelle Smith

It says Rochelle, but I only answer to Shelly.
Born in the east, townhouses stacked like dominos on a tree lined street where I would catch a firefly and watch its light extinguish over the course of an evening while Grandpa lectured me on what was right, and why people drove too fast.
Lived in the middle;
grey skies and cold slushy streets,
rust and iron and structures that serve no purpose.
Workers unite and the mob beats them down and now we name streets and highways after them.
The ghetto is not slovenly but depressing,
I miss it and the revolution that was constantly simmering just below the crust.
I and am slowly reducing my consciousness in the southwest,
where there is only beautiful weather and consumerism
stretching across the desert to the final drips of the Colorado River.
I�ve studied with the best,
I�ve worked with the worst.
I am somewhere in between a good deed and punishment.

If I had to pick and �ism�, it is Post- Modernism. It reminds me of jazz. Sometimes what you don�t hear is as important as what you do hear. I don't believe that people who swear are unintelligent. All language is worth exploring. I don�t limit myself in what I explore. I refuse to give up my punk rock idealism and wallow in the apathy of middle age. Eclectic implies choice of matter and art is not a choice but a scream of indignation and corrosion.