Wednesday, December 3, 2014

Headline Poem 12/3/14 -- I know. I know.

I know. I know. 

She's complex. 
Blonde one day, 
brunette the next. 
She's abrasive. 
She's refined, 
a   role model who    
with the clay 
she dismembers 
and gives away. 
Heavy set and thin, 
     afraid of tin, 
     who has no heart, 
     destructive yet smart. 

Just hearing her first initial 
followed by the ahhhhh
makes me nauseous 
and in pain, 
doubled over, worse than 
surgery recovery,
or a broken arm 
(though I've never had 
the second one). 

     It is slipping on worm-infested mud on a rainy    day. 
It sends chills 
down each sizzling 
and fries my spine 
like an egg 
with toast,  
    cracked, but not broke. 

To know her 
is a sort of deprivation, 
a closed-up coal mine 
on display,
an endless disaster 
of suffocating mold, 
a post pile of ringlets 
and toads. 

I know. 
I know.