in a hell where every doll
ever made looks like you
you find those who spend lifetimes
lying and flying past
the observation of beauty
needing desecration
in order to achieve
a semblance
of balance
appearing to care-ful
repetition cyclical-izes
the benevolences
into honest, selfishly
clever poems
...what burst through
port vagina saloon doors
was my soul and its thing for
springtime tree buds
swung flap lip hinges
warmly a-blanketed
perchance it snowed there
this year, it didn't here
and so Winter wasn't feared
and is so near death
Spring is about
tiny to tall tales
at home rounding
an outside to inside
to outside again
decay to ready wear rain
(the following stanzas will be
heady with the perfumed
memory of a newspaper article I read
about some prom girl having
a bathroom baby then
dumpster dumping it
coldly going back in)
disposable birthday bump slum shag sashes
stain's on the satin s'up with games no gashes
we'd-a be doing rollies in the back shed
ain't a-missing no neo-urban-suburban cotillion instead
we sew lies inside rented dressing
and patchwork ambient tuning in(s)
you are cummerbund I am sequin-picked
there are pieces
and leases
of me and you
in the limousine
don't forget...
can I show you something I can't describe
so I can rest and use your words mostly
and I know I only want to know
what of you smells earthy and raw
I am only somewhat sweet
to you right now because I reckon
if you like rabbit root
or burdock you can leave me any time
as medicine, chewed on a bit
with a little residue you left behind
sometimes I have to close my eyes to see
I can feel the Sun wrap itself around my skin
when caught inside a thought of you
who knew too
if you don't beg
like I do
I'll think
you're not
listening
when I say
I think Breton and the surrealists
finally made Frida feel maternal
she might have said let me paint for you my pain(s)
or at least I imagine that she did, with
each canvas, folding a you past burn
phrase-y membranes
childhood perhaps, a cereal box
a dream sermon repeated
some breakfast at the kitchen table
waiting for the bus
to lurch up outside
with anxiety in the belly
and a morning unfurling
in knives and white knuckles
she might have said
she'd show me what
she was working on now
when I was old enough
to buy a basket
wading in the reeds
EJR ©
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