The End, Baby
After they found her
They said she was such a nice girl
So helpful, so kind, pure
But I knew better
She would shoot up behind the gym
And sell a bit after
Wear no panties
Cakey, unwashed hair
Nails bit off in hasty grief
She’s watched “Sid & Nancy” a hundred times
She would go all the way
Would caress you but you could not
After she would be the
first to tell
She gave me the finger one afternoon
After I asked her how
her day was going
Sharp as a dull and dirty knife
In search of all attention somewhat dangerous
All her moments were madness
One can find a million reasons
To exit stage left
When you are lonely, marginalized
After and all the way till
from the RHETORICAL WANDERLUST
Christmas Eve. A fatal swerve to avoid hitting a raccoon with
my car. What an inglorious start to my eternity. Five weeks in
purgatory’s cafe with the Donner Party.
Oh yes, they are all here: Reeds, Breens, Eddys, Donners and
various others who had the misfortune to fall in with them.
Barefoot and poorly clothed with pale wet skin. Paint your face
girl! They have been here all these years. The nameless powers
that be will not let any of them leave till their stomachs are
bursting full with Big Macs and Twizzlers and cheap warm beer.
And…... well, let us be frank, it has been one hundred and seventy
years. I do not see any of them going elsewhere in the near
future. I have a “gut” feeling that they actually like it here
amongs the chicken bones and rotting green.
Never drive in anger. Seriously. Distracting. He wanted the
younger one. The one with the skinny hips and the “no talk back”
mode. All fresh with dew. No problem, I said. After all, it’s a
great big world!. Hope, like fuck, is a four letter word. I morphed
my loves and interests into a traveling case and moved on out the
door. Alone. Then the damn raccoon committed suicide right
under my Wrangler tires and took me with him.
My exit visa signed and stamped, I am leaving here at dawn. On
my way to eternal bliss, that being a comfy forest chair besides a
fire with many books and a few cats. Turns out one actually does
have a karma bank account and all those donations to PETA and
the local cat shelter have cancelled out my “law of parties”
complicity in the trash panda death. And they have been tolerant
of my “every time my Jeep crashes a raccoon gets his wings” joke.
And him? I will not waste my time, even though I now have plenty
of it, thinking of him. He would like these skinny Donner party
girls. But he will never meet them. I am quite sure he is going
straight to Hell. With the raccoon.
My poem "MY CAT SUSPECTS"
on Spilling Cocoa:
My poem "NAMASTE"
on Wanton Fuckery Poetry: