She wanted to give him

–ideas

her number,

but she wanted to

dig•it

(up)

together,

figure the

–sound

phonics,

and completely in character

(s)

she signed him up

for 2 years

–like

and

tell•her

market•her

that she was

–words,

sent lots & lots of

aged mess

>whoopsie<

messages

via iDeophone

he may have misinterpreted

–I mean: I love you, but f*ck off? That can mean, oh…20 different things, depending on inflection

same as: aloha, only totally

and spectacularly different.

‘barraged him with so much rhetoric

that he eventually didn’t

give

a good goddam

–just a bad one,

and on this dam

(crap though it was)

her ideal words

wrecked…

jammed in logs

of mono

(syllabic)

variety

>or<

“mono’slabic”

if she jabbered ‘em quick enough

(witchy did)

(oh yes she did)

‘breaking down into the smallest unit

of possibility

a Big conflux

(un)

composed

Largely of:

let-her

let-her

: let-her

(s)

 
Steeped in

flagrante

verbs

and custom,

staged in banqu’t

room

of starred

hotel,
 
 
starting

a midsummer

afternoon until

dusk,

she invited me to hyperbole

. . .

a place without motif

. . .

presented petit 4’s

meant to be 8,

scones w

jams & dream,

and the traditional, time-honored

hero

–sandwiched

in unencumbered linens

on silvered tray

–tiered

in

merry

~go~

round

–requesting guests

RSVP.

‘wear elaborate

baseball hats

festooned with flowers,

& broach,

but leave them

at the door

–synecdoche

& shoes, too,

since,

as expected–

it was a barefoot affair

at heart.

Running the gauntlet

and running a marathon

are the same

–and totally different–

the first is defined by

fierce

determination

to do your best,

the second by

fears

determined

to best you,

the one you swing your arms

–you’re fit!

the other

you swing your arms

–in fists!

the marathon

quickens your

heart beat

–causing you to sweat,

and the gauntlet

quickens your

beat heart

–sweating

your cause.

So, a marathon and the gauntlet

are the same…

like surveillance versus howja do…

but totally different.

she’ll die tomorrow

–gun in hand

hand that guided

pastel

before pistol,

color

before dolor,

paint

before pain,

that hand will trigger

an end game

she can…ah…live with

–Russian Roulette

grown tiresome.

Loading every

monkey in that barrel,

she’ll cry rough

–for the last time–

punch buttons

to bells

to voice mail unheard

she’ll die tomorrow

(all over again)

gun in hand.

I dismounted

my high horse,

(a stalled one)

stable

–ized–

show pony,

(my little kiss & tell)

–unpinned

tale from

ass

(and penned it)

–learning how to

bear the load.

Emerging from

decades long

cocoon,

Butter ripped anticipated

wings

–on unanticipated observer

and

Tattered,

Battered

–a forcibly excreted

bi-product–

Butter couldn’t fly

Bits of purgatoried past

sticking to

velvet,

and brand new hell, besides,

Butter couldn’t

even be

a drone.

Fluttering,

Flapping,

Butter tried

taking off…

over

&

over

&

over

–realizing

(too late)

it was

over.

Over for Butter,

Butter melted down

–a stain where

promise once dwelt…

–a greasespot

before

her time.

she was

. . .

agro’cultured.

All about enemy

turf

and bad with geography–

she was

. . .

spit-polished.

Pinkie extended

after Bronx raspberry,

she seemed

. . .

refined.

Like high fructose

corn syrup

–cloying–

but

addictive.