But I followed instructions! Wring blood from a stone and use the drops as lip gloss.
My new job is branding mascara. This one’s called “The Tracks of My Tears.”
At the baby grand, my pearly whites dissolved to box-office poison.
Sawzall, Adderall, bias-cut satin: recipe for trouble.
You can let yourself down from the ceiling. My name is no longer Miss Muffet.
Now I’m known as Queen Charlotte II. In my memoirs, your chapter is “Some Pig.”
A thousand years after disco died, we gaze at the glittering sphere.
Every ceiling fixture we own is a folie de grandeur.
I might have known we’d come unglued in the Palace of Particleboard.
The baptismal river of tears flows to an azure ocean playground.
From Formula One to formulaic before the engine cooled.
Headless torso, knees and toes in the bullet-ridden sky.
Round three and the love is off. My fingertips are numbskulls.
A right-handed woman is always in search of a missing right-hand glove.
- Two Poems - January 19, 2017
- Two Poems - June 6, 2016
- Baby Grand - July 20, 2015
