Be as a bird perched on a frail branch that she feels bending beneath her, still she sings away all

the same, knowing she has wings.

Certain thoughts are prayers. There are moments when, whatever be the attitude of the body, the

soul is on its knees.

A man is not idle because he is absorbed in thought. There is a visible labor and there is a

invisible labor.       -Victor Hugo 3X

Once a princess had a rambling map birthmark in a rather tender space,

That a tattoo artist would have paid her to meander into place.

Generals traveled to her rear end as a sign-nee

Hoping to hold the squeaker that marked the X on her hinny.

As they planed an attacked on her stern with a bag over her head.

Blotting the atlas with red circles the soon to be dead.

Since the map creased and rose in a most particular latergy,

Consequently, the battle makers screwed the strategy.

The resignation sign hangs for a lost war rucked-up,

Not to worry because on the other side it says she ducked-up.

Therefore, never let it be said royalty does not do their duty,

This was a service of honor, not of looty.

mused from 10th Daughter of Memory 

 















Ironic.

I’ve always found lewd voyeurism beyond my threshold of adventure. Opting instead for the comfort zone of vicarious. Wearing my best oblique hobo suit in disguise, I will not be noticed. Alone one can pretend by imagining-fitting-in, until you go out + try. I was hauled out of line anyway + put on the road to cavalry.

We fall to collective pieces in being reminded that we were put here to undo each other. The mantra so ingrained that it has been forgotten, + simply carried out.

My vision is wall-eyed, confusing as a double exposure. So, I’m never sure if that tall one is stepping on the toddler or if the bright lipstick is stuck onto the glass or on a face. I see a perpetual faux barren landscape to the left. Flies have come + gone for years being duped by the low tangle of plastic brush promising shade. My other eye looks forward + slightly down focused on an angry railing meant to separate.

My peripheral vision spies a group of 3^rd graders. They drink liquid that makes them pucker as the first half is downed. The most worrisome two-legged are the ones that leave debris, offer papers, + used band aids. They lunge + back away. They shield their eyes from the glare, + try again to peer in toward me.

I was shot out, tagged the cold wall of heaven, + then ricocheted back down exploding into this catatonic hulk. What’s left is confined in thermo plastic muscle, rubber sinew + synthetic fur.

I have a drip of sweat that has been itchy for years.

I had been a train wreck of a financier. Now trapped behind glass, stuck inside this Rhino, on display in hell.