She is not cancerous
just a bloody, gushing pain in the ass.
She shrieks for
fiber
should
eliminate the sugar,
fried whites and browns.
Hilda needs to add green
red, orange, yellow, and
perhaps a purple
to her day.
Allowing
her
to cool down,
have fewer flare-ups.
Soothed, now
by the unflappable
Hazel
a witch who
comes
expertly
recommended.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!
Come on dearie
don’t be so Grimm
there’s nothing left to fear.
The big bad wolf
evil prick that he is
is out fooling with some
naïve Red Riding Hood on Facebook
and the wicked witch
has roared off on her broom
to Instagram a novel fashion color.
It’s okay to come out.
The bogey woman has left the building.
She got bored
went off to scare up a new Princess.
All the evil turds are gone
Rapunzel
Oh, by the way, you have netted a pink slip.
I’ll explain later.
Seriously, it’s time to escape
from your ivory tower
color those roots
get out of that frumpy dress
invest in a pedicure.
So join the group
get analyzed
and who knows
maybe in a few years
You too, can
get a divorce
move in with Mom, and possibly
fit back into those skinny jeans.
Hello, my name is Cornelia
And I am a poet because
I need to condense this moment, now the
who, what, where, when, why, and how... of it.
I have a purpose, a tenacity, crystal clear.
Plus, I want to choose from an endless list of black and strong
to go with my Einstein bagel and schmear. Also, teach Kimmie how to say
Ursula (Err-sue-LA)
TRULY, I am a poet
Because it doesn’t mean a thing
If you haven’t got that zing
to people in the bayou
with alligators for neighbors
and mosquitoes as big as flying saucers
those who want to drink your blood
and leave welts the size of basketballs.
BIG...ORANGE...HARD...BALLS.
The balls that it takes
to stand UP and SHOUT
about SENIORITY and AUTHORITY
and about the assonance and consequence
of our actions.
I am a poet
because of the reason and the rhyme, marking time
Dripping off my tongue-- aged like fine wine.
Lyrical and magical
Like ALICE
Chasing a rabbit into a hole, out of control
hanging on a cliff, with a NOTE
high on hope, instead of dope.
Set adrift, on a sinking ship with a Fever
unrehearsed and cursed, to just be.
I am a poet
because of sibilant S’s
and because I want to weigh the wind
on an impossible scale next to a fish tail that never pales,
smells stale or fishy.
I want to be shackled to a form and not mourn.
To show the flaming red dawn like a phoenix rising from the ashes
to give birth to the music of my faith
Forever skewed, on strong WORDS,
RINGING in my ears, HIGH ABOVE THE HERD
until my LAST measured day, on Earth.
He is magnificent.
Standing there in his white shirt and dark trousers, he takes slow, deliberate steps in a well-worn semi-circle.
His sharp scissors shape and clip, carefully clicking along to a favorite tune.
An eclectic mix of light and dark locks
heap on the floor,
a bushy witness to his art.
A favored comb is well-positioned in his back pocket, ready for its cameo, then placed back as the razor continues to hum. He finishes with the Asian man before me: neck freshly shaven and brushed, cologne dabbed, and, too soon, the smock is removed and shaken.
The black and white checkered floor is swept. He pivots from the polished chrome and black leather chair to announce,
Next...
It is gripping like a one-act play,
and I am the only woman in the theater.
He smiles and looks towards me, repeating the invitation.
I amble towards him, no longer confident of the lucidity of my whim, then purposefully plop myself down in his chair to stare dolefully at my reflection. He swings the chair around so I can no longer see and proceeds to work. It doesn’t take long.
After he finishes, he hands me a mirror. My neck is quite pale above the old hairline, and I sense sunburn in my future.
I am not sure why, but I pay him.
I suppose that I am star-struck. He is Barnum, and I am not.
He nods curtly as I am dismissed, and the regulars continue to file in.
The leather chair is still moist from my heat.
A
Broken Glass
Clearly
Defines the moment.
Evident in the
Forefront
Grabbing my attention.
How does the
Imperfect yet polished
Juxtaposition
Kill my mood
Leaving
Me
No choice
Of course, but to
Pick up my pencil
Queue it to experience
Reflect on the moment
Savor the lost sip
Thread it into the story
Underscore the importance
Value the color
Wheel it this way and that
Xerox it, then sail off on a
Yacht and study
Zen.
An excerpt from The Katya Chronicles
Why must it always come down to that?
Didn’t they know he had connections with the spirit world?
He could fly without a machine
and higher than any human or feline.
He’d spotted the band that way
promised them that his kind did not carry off toddlers
All they had to do was entertain his boss.
That was when he noticed her orange hair
just like the prince, but uncombed.
A sign.
He would put them together.
Perhaps she would donate her luscious mane,
to the Royals.
In exchange for sundries.
That way, the heir could have a spare wig.
He was far too young to be spending all his extra time in the turret.
Barter worked well with the serfs. Besides,
the prince had a soft spot for young pussies.
She could wear a bandanna until it regrew.
Very stylish in upper cat circles.
Katya would improve her lot
The prince would have a new kitty to play with
It was a win/win.
There was something about this one, too.
She was smarter than the rest
Perhaps he could teach her chess.
Meadow Pause is what he called it.
But Meadow Pause made me feel like a confused,
overheated cow pausing in a meadow beside a guava tree.
A plump famished cow
Nay, a tail swatting cow
swiping a multitude of relentless flies.
Mooing in a high-pitched voice to Mother Nature about trade-wind breezes.
Causing my mood to surge from pink to blue and then see red, while sliding down a temperamental roller coaster in a pinball machine, stirring up a myopic zeal to murder Father Time.
A confused, overheated, plump, famished, moody, myopic cow, plodding down a meadow path in a sticky pasture, contemplating the change.
before my milk runs dry and I become irrelevant and invisible.
Or worse, before I cease to exist and someone turns me into a giant bag of rawhide dog chews.
The considerable dilemma of one confused, bellowing, moody, myopic, fat cow that would not go quietly through the rails.
No, indeed
This pacing, panting, drooling cow promises
to alert the other cow bitches
that are sure to follow.
