Gold in Fifty

To Be, or Not.

perpetuatingthewheel:

My Bitches and Nigga-g’s. I reference me,
not thee. With a joke:

What do you get when a WASP hits a bar
and says hey there bitch,
get my drink!?

…The irrevocable schmuck of the bar.

Now, when a female walks in with her pack of bitches
and black widow hoe’s, they have earned rights
to their goldin embroidered Satin Bombers and name;
by path. One morsel other’s tend to take, and bash,
poke and pry with self-indulgent fantasy.

We can call ourself that because:

History has been a struggle. 

And to you, whom tamper the footprint:
the monument you build leans its way to Fall. In leaves
and small pox bundles, overwritten Holiday’s, Dear Columbus,
I’m not talking to you, but I hear your fleet flapping sails
in the wind and I’ve seen the pictures they have painted of me
to send home. I am not that savage one. I never will be
—even stripped of my fields and bulbs, my toiled fruits
—I’ve seen the unedited text,
and I hear thoughts from the horizon.

I am not the wind at your back,
the wind is we.

The Grass.

“They say it’s always greener, but look at you.” “Bound to brittle hay patch, dressed in parchment, dancing with your crystal parasol… staring at the sun.” Meerweh shoo glances, collecting scenes in slides: Islands of man. Stand. Crystalline. Cool glaciers of Krypton. Embed. Magma. Rapids. Tears, hers; travel groove and bend, of knee, drip—between toes, down, down… down into the cool dark, of earth.

I’m here to cry—for you, Meerweh’s glass eyes burn.

The Pineapple.

perpetuatingthewheel:

Her namesake bestowed the secret: Twist the sharp spiny top. Peel lowest blades. Screw it into dampened earth. Wait.

1,095 days pass. Blades grow long and then a sprout, small—like a prickly pear.

The symbol of hospitality in Hawaii. Pilar excitedly slides glass upon her patio garden.

The fruit’s vanished.

The Best I Can See, Today.

We all know what we’re doing, right? Feel safe
here in each other’s arms. Fog clears. Snow
melts. Into rivulets, flood. We see runaway love
boats: bound two-faced masts and sails. See
the image we paint; is our self.

Our model is victim, contingent solely by chance.
Or design?

Stand-up comedy.

lets-play:

“Your momma this, your momma that. We all know your momma is too fat.”

Now that was funny.
Or was it
simply insecurity pointing fingers? I’m sorry,
but I find true comedy in that which can reflect on itself, laugh, and
in the process help someone else realize something through laughter.

Even something minimal, like brushing your teeth
will keep the drill from your pearls.

Salle D’attente’.

Fear of Doc and Dentist.

“Why?”
“complications.”
“Never here.”

“…You needn’t be awake.” The best jazz plays, I want to inquire it… 
“Bottom on the table,”

“relax” he says. “Relax everything, lean back your head.” 
“Now cough… louder… cough again.”

Three long Novocain pricks.

“Sounds like laughter.”

Veronica wasn’t laughing.