That previous December,
a little voice was coyly in-treat-ing:
"Take an angry butcher knife to your hair,
and paint it the color of a strawberry,
some dear, saintly soul will finally notice
you have some fire left within you"
Your eyes flickered brightly on the jet-way
the flash of surprise lighted by stop-lights
the roar of your engine ig-night-ed as you
shifted us back and forth. light and dark.
fast and slow. this way and that. swaying.
I would then become like spearmint-
red, and white twisted so tightly that
the colors blurred and clung to each other--
a spiral of some-days, a certainty of now.
For weeks after, I felt coated internally with
a sticky-sweet giggle, that guarded my
heart from the outside darkness,forever?--
it would, however, begin to creep back in
unravel the spiral and
roll back to my empty front door.
Tickle your toes. . .
where are my garden gloves to weed out your evils? where are my rubber gloves to scrub off your stupid? where are my surgical gloves to cut ...
"do not argue. please stay silent. smile and nod. remember etiquette first. do not speak. unless spoken to. no opinions please." y...
I swing in a mini skirt and pill box hat, cat-eyes and pompadour hair, wild in my Stiletto-heeled shoes- and I skulk in a monk dress with th...