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Kate Herrell Mar 2011
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Kate Herrell Mar 2011
if i were a spandexed hero
i'd be 'The Human Romance Novel'
or 'Mediocre Girl'
it would depend on the costume
i don't do spandex
but if there was a cape
a silk cape
i'd negotiate
for powers i'd have unconditional love
but that seems stupid
next to a magical golden lasso
or x-ray vision
or a gold-plated utility belt
with gold-plated stretch band
and gold-plated throwing stars
in the shape of
well... stars
Kate Herrell Mar 2011
i dream
walking in a wind tunnel
and air keeps rushing
into my mouth so quickly
i can't breathe
and i can't stop walking
there's nothing behind me
not a black hole
not a white expanse
nothing
and maybe if I can just make it
to the end of the tunnel
there will be no wind at all
and it will be always sunny
and always warm
not too warm
and i'll never get burnt
and i'll never need shoes
or brush my hair
or blow my nose
or remember anything
and nothing will matter
except exactly what i want
what i want to do
and i will dance in circles
for hours and hours
and never get tired
or hurt
and i'll never fall down
Kate Herrell Mar 2011
anyone can write about a bird.
Kate Herrell Mar 2011
which animal are you, America?
elephants and donkeys can't procreate
so pull your head out of the sand
and be a (wo)man
before the mutually assured
ignorance incites
a funeral for the body politic
buried alive 'neath muddy
sterile
nuclear paperwork
Kate Herrell Mar 2011
a partial lobotomy of grey matters only to broken mothers of lost soldiers,
pentimento fading a revelation of humanized
modernized sentiment beyond the reaches of fingerless hands;
jagged bangs cut across the face of Burn-Victim Barbie if she were
seven feet tall,
imperfect,
9-dimensional shattered knees.
vote or die downward spiral protecing six-fingered man of mystery:
my name is the youth of America,
you killed my voice,
prepare to suffer in the solitary expression of the empty room.
peanuts for peanuts in a gold star self emporium with
thinking as a feeling sport contested by numerology in all matters moral.
Our very own
Satan as Hamlet,
set in a post-9/11 forgotten Washington,
drowning Ophelia in an ocean of plastic bottles non-recyclable.
meditation of the Om on a springboard of economic dis-stimulus:
up with the people!
in the midnight Vendetta,
too young to learn or sin originally,
masterful drunkenness shrouded in opera scenes from a hat.
fast track to a treble cliff diver
if you ever were my home.

— The End —