Linked bracelets keep arms from flying,

and money-colored nails crucify palms in pointed, pointless stigmata

Curb but create a fisting problem, along with

matching ring cuffs which

Eyeballed size is so off eventual amputation

is a shoo in,

and ultimate, future ice-breaker, besides.

as in: “nice nubs–is that hereditary?”

Belt skips leg up loops

but bands gut feeling

(more effective than surgery for wait control)

while thinking caps damn overflowing brains

though some synapses spill out that little flap in the back, anyway. . .

That flap that gives way altogether on the swelled heads lockering average minds

releasing collateral mediocrity into the atmosphere like so many GHG’s.

Jackrabbit feet

>start<

>stop<

>start<

>stop<

(start and stop and start and stop and start and stop and so on—losing any sincere punctuation along the way)

held back))))

by broken streetlights,

and sock puppet races.

by tightly-laced shoes,

and missing bootstraps,

by sick sense

and experience,

and to top that—necklaces!

Necklaces of all things,

you wouldn’t think. . .

Well, necklaces…

Made of chain they choke,

and silk can loop & lynch,

since it’s probably adulterated, you know.

A pilling power cord

of Unplugged boundary

that loosens by the 2^nd

but chokes a 1^st rate, Winchester noose for most everyone at least once.

(I’d hazard to say)

Slung in secret over dissolving moonbeams

just persistent enough to last

until tags pop off heifer-pierced ears. . .

Until cheeks full of tongue darts explode!

©Karen Robiscoe

 
Every day

I pick up my

attitude

–a discarded crumple on the floor–
 

duct taping away the dust bunnies of depression

from its crinkles,

using a really old toothbrush

to scrub

at the pain stains that leaked

into its folds

no matter how hard I cap those pointed blues the night before

. . .

pinning the holes of loss

with old-fashioned safety pins

\\\

and shaking out the whole,

I take stock.
 

I concentrate on the brighter colors

that defy repeated wear

–and complement both sun & rose–

and rise,

(then)

and dress,

(now)

and decide

(also)

that the small spots at worn cuff

are admirable,

–and lend to the pattern

at the heart of my outlook–

that there are yet beautiful buttons

there, too,

and the fringe at hem

is almost exotic

–tres Par’ee–

and squaring shoulders beneath

unpadded

point of view

I step out
 

–noticing just how many of us

are wearing the same

outfit.

British cars

are better than ours

–they’ve got

bonnets

–they’ve got

boots,

but question, oh

so apropos

is where’s the rest of suit?

the skirt,

the dress

the belted pants?

since chance of fans

as slacks,

is slim to none

though anyone

might w’air

condition chaps

who steer

from right

and drive all wrong!

but still accessorize. . .

with wings for bumps

chaps never dump,

their trunks

abutting ride.

If 1 Day

is Monday

that’s never 2sday,

and Wednesday

> though midway <

lost 3 in translate.

while Thursday

which sounds trey

is really the 4^th

–not Friday

(a free-day)

since that’s 5^th

of course.

The 6th day

that sits way

–down in the week

is all about sitting

and “past tense” in speak.

And Son-day

is fund day

for God’s favorite sun,

who pulls triple-duty

returning to 1.

Monday

finds me full of zest,

my up & atoms–at its best,

and edgier for 2 days rest,

I hit the ground a’runnin’…

♦

Tuesday, too,

I’m still at peak,

confident the current week,

is conduit to all I seek,

rewardin’ work and funnin’…

♦

by Wednesday, tho,

I’m feeling surly,

tired’er for waking early,

less enthused with hurly-burly,

my outlook is deflatin’…

♦

by Thursday then,

I’m pumped for end,

of weekly grind–and prepped to spend,

my time away with fam’ & friends

–not workin’ now, just waitin’…

♦

For Friday–yAy!

(it’s come at last!)

and boy oh boy, I’ll have a blast!

these next 2 days, you betcher ass–

at 10 to 5 I’m sneakin’…

♦

Out the door,

to live it up!

To party hardy–pass the cup!

(But truth be told)

job’s kicked my butt

♦

–and mostly,

that’s my weakened…

years later

> at the schoolhouse <

I come to learn that

Chinese jump rope’s made

in America,

that freeze tag’s

a photo

that hopscotch

is fermented,

–and sold at

monkey bars–

just a hop, skip, and backward alphabet away

(from)

the swing set

with grills on the right & boys lining the surf

–who

teeter

&

totter

&

eventually

catapult

(like a really well-done shotput)

beyond non-regulation B-Ball hoops,

3 Wall racket ball,

and torn chain-link

holding it all together

while Mary–

old-fashioned Merry,

Sweet, muddled, old-fashioned Mary just goes ‘round

(and round)

(and round)

playing hide-and-go-seek like to make an astronaut dizzy

…

G-force, you know, as

the steepest slide affords

a different kind of thrill…

 Thinking in terms

of “character” traits,

does W envy the V

for her Waist?

since plainly

V Vainly

watches her slants,

the W tried

but W can’t. . .

And what about M?

does it Make her Mad?

that N’s always Noshing,

but Never gets fat?

as all letters know

M Moder-ates Much,

whatever M “ate”

was Merely enough…

The same goes for B

who’s Bothered by P,

since B is as Basic

to meals as can B–

He Broils

He Bakes

But Blasted

P Poaches,

winning the Battle

of Bulge

with aPProaches

–and gloating–

P Pairs,

and Pigs out

on blankets,

wraPPed around aPPs

found

around franks–

–it’s no wonder

that speech is

deteriorating!

with such letter envy

and such letter hating!

Clearly impelling

a global truncating

–of petulant words

that need separating,

’til finally one day

we’ll boot acronyms, too

reverting to grunts

as cavemen would do.