IF THE BUBBA HAD BALLS SHE’D BE THE ZAIDA
I don’t want to be stung by Fall’s last wasp
I don’t want to be lashed by the critic’s tongue
I have finally gone public with my poems and
yesterday the muse shrieked:
“You fucking famewhore. I’m outta here.”
So I wrote a middling poem about Spring 2013
When it will be green Oh so green
—
Fall 2012
*for Charles Bukowski & Illinois Atkins
WALK LIKE AN EGYPTIAN
At 4 am as I swim back up up up
to consciousness I must confess:
I have a thought so horrible my brain
shouts DON’T GO THERE
But too late I see myself in the fetal position
in a rectangular box in the ground
DO NOT GO THERE WE REPEAT DO NOT GO THERE
A box that fits my body perfectly
No room to spare No worldly goods
No Nefertiti me Just my pink tee &
work out capris Silent and calm and dead
But not in a bad way All curled up and ready for the long sleep
__
Winter 2012
THE WOMB IS A PERMEABLE MEMBRANE
She has rough red patches on her face
and her teeth are brown & misshapen
She is skinny as a rake
“My mother and father take drugs she
squeaked” “I don’t think my mother
will get better But my father might”
—
Spring 2012
songanddancegirl... at 4
songanddancegirl 