Don’t lead with your bleeding insides.

It’s not what the world expects—

Don’t drip on their high

lest you be “that guy”,

camouflage your defects.

Quash your anxiety firmly.

Who cares if it shifts and gnaws?

Present a good face,

manage with grace,

candy-coat obvious flaws.

Convey your best pasteurized wishes,

to those you encounter each day,

inquire after—

their life with some laughter–

(The laughter will show you’re ok.)

If such artifice becomes tiresome,

& you feel the mask slipping, please note—

If you lay yourself bare

no one will care,

even worse only few swing the vote.

To recap this advice in a nutshell,

& pin-point the best path to choose,

smiling through pain,

is the only way plain,

To insure they don’t turn off the news.

Rosé & Bodie

went for a cruise

–with water beneath,

above–cups of booze

initially padd’lin’

against current

— pair

toasted on boats

-deck w nary a care

for coast guard,

or life guard,

–no

regard

for either–

Rosé & Bodie

were Rose & Bod’ dreamers,

but when water po-po

turned on their sirens,

Bodie was dumbstruck

Rosé was cryin’,

since mermaids

then waylaid

the duo for drinking,

tied ‘em & tugged ‘em

but saved them from sinking,

now Rows in Boat

are headin’ downstream

warily…wearily

without Dramamine.

at day’s end, I

ablute—like any good girl, I

remove,

rinsing my eyes

with glue

> a staple <

to fix the tearing problem I’ve developed, I

wipe away. . .

washing mud, smoke, and stars from them

with full-grown oil,

cracking kaleidoscope lens, I

replace.

brushing my tongue with soap

lye soap

to tone down the acid situation there

that’s a step away from vulgarity, a chronic condition your dentist can’t fix

linguist either, I

garble.

gargling and flossing with candy

that helps, I

release the bunnies.

combing through

my do

(and don’t)

loosening

moose, rats, hare, and beehive

and any any

number of small would-land creatures, I

catch.

when they do land

business end up, wouldn’t you know it,

right near my snarled ends…

For the fourth place winner

there is no fanfare,

no spot on a dais,

nor humble expression required…

Fourth place—in itself—is already humility.

There will be no need

for the fourth place winner to attend

the celebratory dinner,

no need to prepare a speech,

thanking Mom and Dad, and possibly

a surprise figure from his past.

Mom and Dad are secretly embarrassed

–for all that they say otherwise–

since the fourth place winner

should understand

now

(instead of later)

that there is no fourth place.

Not really…

not in actual sporting events,

and not in life,

and this rectangle of

criss-cut satin yellow

is panacea,

is the “no booing” rule

ramped up a notch,

is an eye-patch waiting to happen—

a fourth place loser

that Nobody applauds

–not really–

Nobody is rooting for the winner!

(along with Everybody Else)

who is always

three steps ahead—

Saber tooth

worries stalk me

circling my perimeter day after day

–kept at busy’s bay–

they attack from dusk to dawn

chewing up my insides,

and scoring through my outsides,

and second-guessing decides,

they pack with wild bore’s

–the kill of which

often renders them one and the same—

all the while

jokesters cackling

maniacally from a distance

–disturbing  chorus pitched particular to my frequency—

and though I gird myself

and guard myself,

and run myself

and from myself,

–all quest for safe haven

returns

–on silent pause–

to me.

 

Let’s sit in black velvet, Elvis,

under a jawbreaker moon.

Expect a firmament

dripping sugar crystal
 

clear and blue floss

just at sundown, streaking

stadium-sized meteors

that tat wholes

—out of holes

shaping ephemeral

auroras into

(Western Nights)

Saltwater taffy our jammed Tootsies

Popped into shore-breaking

—with laughter

an unguarded medicine,

rolling & cresting

whatever ails you

if anything does

ease it for you.

Let’s do that…

you & me

sometime.

©Karen Robiscoe

Charon’s Ferry

(bait and tackle)

set up shop near River Styx,

at its nexus

south of Texas

selling river-crossing trips,

the only charge

to ride that barge

a coin between your lips

assuming death

has stopped your breath

when booking you on ship….

& once aboard

with demon horde

you’ll find there’s much to do,

since power boats

don’t cross the moat

between Abyss and you,

> at very least <

that Charon beast

expects you work the crew,

so bring a paddle

like rest of chattel

‘fore jumpin’ on canoe.

Then feel free

(the last you’ll be)

to look around the lake,

some residents

¡were presidents!

but there’s no Watergate—

–no Hoover dam

but Dick’s herb and

that’s mood Depressing shake

(Herb shovels sh*t

around the Pit

with pointless, taxing rakes)

There’s Bordens, too

and Gorgons, who

are not as stoned as last time

it’s best to peek

with glance oblique

since stoning is their pastime,

avoiding stares

(& whispered prayers)

should save you from that cast eye

a payoff huge

since Pan will use

your stones for breaking glass shrines…

But when you dock

across the Loch

make sure your hands aren’t idle

as Devil loves

his ownsome gloves

not yours—that sh*t’s just libel

assist offload

as if you’re Job

both actual, and Bible,

secure the gang

way—try to hang

way back in case of tidal

↓ ebb & flow ↑

of flames can throw

you face to face with idols.

–a closing tip—

there’s no round trip

your destination’s final.