she was the wolf

that cried

“girl”,

the pumpkin-lover

sure to beat the carriage home,

the napping blueblood who

rolled over

in lieu of kisses

–eschewing organic fruit for

GMO since she knew damn well

bigger was better, and

a sure cure for living with systemic

pesticide

– the mutant green–

and ever

mindful of impending run on glass coffins,

she trip-trip-trapped

across bridges

–aflame behind her,

a burning pyre of pick-up Styx

that had gone up like a pile

of pick-up Styx

// just like that \\

careless of gnomes, trolls  and ogres, all,

but mouse-fearful of pachyderms

she embraced blackout conditions

(when available)

and employed catapult to sling Stones

–on the down low

. . .

–at a gun fight

. . .

–at a proper fi-fie-foe fed fire

all the while fermenting bad apples in

cider which

offed

the less hardy

(in cider = truth)

but not her royal ass-pain

–valuing rest beyond

formula, she

was good to leave

secret rooms  locked,

–for heaven’s sake–

climbing 500

miles of stares

instead,

–God Bless America–

and presenting word jumbles

when it felt just rite

–presently–

to riddle you this.

 
 
I couch words carefully,

since going futon- free,

and so far,

it’s a workable arrangement

putting only those on the table

I can afford to misplace

–and look for frantically

when they escape me–

I don’t miss the stuffing

padded, and made of throats

I don’t miss the Nook

preferring hardcopy

I don’t miss having trouble

rising,

and I don’t miss the

burlap sham

that encased it…

worn out sham

 
the frame is the only real part of it

I miss…

the brighter weave where it once rested,

a reminder.

I’m paper

–thusly stationary–

but long to fly

) no aviary (

to limit flight

but wild and free

as uncaged bird is what I’d be…

my first attempt

to Wright

went wrong

I rolled in spit

–and shot through straw–

and took a hit

when backdraft blew,

that spitwad back

in lieu of flew…

on second flight

I fared no better,

becoming kite

the size of letter

-head, but several excess tales

/// assured ///

that worded kite would fail…

I turned within

and puffed hot air!

hoping to set sail from there–

since sky lanterns can burn on high

but frilly me, was shy of fire

I tried so much!

no lie–the fax,

diminished me

to toned syntax,

and missing matter

messed the mark

no–faxing proved a disembark

of snail mail

I wasn’t fan

and fanning femme

was not my plan,

andcrimpedandcramped

my disposition

\\ bent like hell //

and still

transition

from blotter to a soaring swan–

eluded me

‘til polly-gone

–of fan I made

but would not hold,

inspired what was final fold

and taking on a brand new hobby,

I taught myself to origami

pleating in a new-learned crease

–a doubled over, time release–

changed paper me

to quilly flier

(note to self)

paste Post-its higher…

 
you are more than

copper

–policing the heavens

you are gold…

conduit of the Son

Golden Boy,

and precious.

I am more than

silver

–lines in the cloud

I am Sun

silvered, which warmth

inside melts

edges

and complements

Silver Girl,

(I am)

yet tarnished.

Neglected and uncared for and

dulling in every sense.

Come, now,

Golden Boy

lose the club

(at waste)

forget the been,

and is, and

create what can be!

(forge ahead!)

forget brass rings

(piercing knows)

and I’ll forget plate

(imitation fill)

You and I

are

precious

. . .

sought after and treasured

–by most–

Let’s be molten

together.

(a memory lane poem–like all my recent posts have been–as I dig through reams of the written to form an amalgam of thoughts spanning decades.)

your soul can get

phat

–it can!

that food for the soul

isn’t low-cal

by no mean

it’s heightened everything,

and so sweet…

–but most for your toast

ain’t salad

(for crying out loud)

that ‘gimme some sugar’

is raw!

Plain as the knows in your faith,

for all it’s extra special, it’s

Good food

to mete–

Good God–

let’s eat!

Surprising, though, which

chow

lingers the longest

(a swivel of hips)

and which is quickest to go…

(a shoulder with chip)

take for example,

love.

It coats the spirit

for-e-v-e-r

(talk about those lasting pounds!)

>ker-thud, ker-thud<

long after it’s eliminated from

your RDA

–no matter how often you exorcise

it

swells the heart,

–no matter how frequently your head spins

‘but’ gets bigger,

–no matter if you chug-a-lug Spirits,

and carbo load angel food

your reflection is

permanently

plus

(1)

size.

On camera 2,

and while that’s neither well nor good,

it is

and now you’re probably wondering

which kismet kibble is easiest to lose…

(I’m projecting)

and that’s such a no-brainer

you’d have to be short-bussed

not to sense it innately

–at least a Little Bit

…

and do you?

trust.

Trust is the first soul food to go

–who cares if residual traces remain in your gut

–or if you’d stocked up last time out to Big Box,

and forget

your stash in cupboard with Cupcake…

it spoiled

Why, you can lose it just

thinking

about it,

and certainly

–certainly–

by passing it by.

put the fun

in funeral

get black balloons. . .

scatter ash like confetti

and hang a banner:

“get well soon”

to show you’re ironic

(“bon voyage” altogether too predictable)

an upside down cake at wake

or devil’s food,

and of course–

a piñata.

No sendoff is complete without

a creped animal

stuffed with bittersweets. . .

and later on,

if you sense the festivities are

beginning to

pall–

suggest a rollicking round of Russian roulette,

followed by Musical Coffins

(naturally)

and Hangman

. . .

played out as charades.

I don’t have a pet,

but bump into one

every beach day just the same

–as reliable as any

ever kept,

(even if the owner isn’t)

I can count on Prince to be there

stamping on my tootsies,

nipping at my heels,

and ready to play ball.

(an arch’type, you know?)

If I run–he runs

If I walk–he walks

If I fall–he falls, since

London Bridge is comin’ down, and

Prince can’t negotiate deep sand for sh*t

He loves the surfline, and

I don’t mind–

–it keeps me on my toes

and more the merrier, he

. . .

is such a good companion, but even so

–when I leave,

I leave

Prince

behind, and it’s only

right I should

–foregoing sands

for cement,

I know the city

won’t

Foot

Prince

feats.