once a year, I put her in a poem...

I believe it's Lana Turner in the 1940's, photographer unknown

falling through the Earth to the center of the universe and finding out, it's made of Lana Turner and your imagination of color in a black and white photograph

born in the 1960’s

I fought in the new wave wars

wanting everything to be different

against the grain

but really

who was I kidding

I was and always will be

an old fashioned

whore for comfort

an expert at apathy

a master of classic denial

an artillery gunner

a stunner runner

a clever sever of body warts

I pray to the ramparts

that I may become part bombast

part popular culture

part fitted in

to pre-fabrication

and form

of following

horded knowledge

not remembered

you know how

trends seek

the shine

the lowest

common denominator

what's yours and mine

to see what we can find

everything disguised

as individual decision

kelp sway politics

tattered cloth skin

swimming each sea

with group think

dulling precision

hoping the incisions

slow the salt

trace of life

enough to find

your calendar markings home

I keep writing the same poem

a torque wanted breast heavy brain therapy

I throw myself in the glands

inside the wired push up

under the taut soft fabric sweater

there are things

once you get next to

that never look worse

for the wear

you swear by release

by disregarding

your intake regulation

you will be gentle before squeezing

hoping your nails are trimmed

and tidy as you dig in

glory seeping into

story after story

myths, maypoles and tadpoles

the cattail ponds

with gathered geese looking on

in blind chorus echoes

Rumpelstiltskin, they whisper

Jack and the Beanstalk

the reign of gold

is still in vogue

let's go find that peddler

of beans

we may not

have the cows

but we know

where the milk is

EJR ©