Thursday, May 17, 2012
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 the cowl over my head. For evening wear I have my skimpy chiffon, You can find me usually covered in lace with matching long sleeves. A feather boa on occasion. and it's alright to bare my midriff wide-belled ankles flowing, you won't see me in those corsets, seamed tights, skirts covering my knees. oh dear, just hand me my short plastic raincoat and my go-go boots- and watch my hemlines get shorter and shorter. remember those urbanized days- when life was in separates, pieces and not efficiently outfitted? tell me green-eyed lady, were you radical, subversive, do you remember a time when counterculture and social revolution permeated your white-washed air? irresponsible excess and flamboyance. that's all I see in you. no, you don't remember anything green-eyed lady, even though you were there.
Tickle your toes. . .
Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...
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 ...