So this isn't the demon
you told me about

It's awfully common,
you say,
of a person my age
to feel hyper-reactive
once in a while
To walk a mile
in her own head,
painting it petty and sparkling

But maybe I should
at least know better
than to ride the flamboyant
hell
To make the day one
long yell
"Let's piece together
these undeserved rags,"
they make me think
as I glide from
one face to the next

I am not Cinderella
I am her
kin
If I were old enough
I would drink myself
down with a bottle of
gin
Of gin made from kin
and refused help

"Untalented", I claim
heresy to my personality
Thinking, "everyone looks better than me,
but no, I can be better than them"
And I hear you say,
"What a sin, tsk, tsk, tsk!"

And the other demons,
they say, "Let her
stay!
Let her
stay!"

The diva's not the demon
you speak of

Who is it really?
Introduce him or her
Has it ever occurred
to you that
we would make
a good pair
of masters, of narcissists,
of lovers

A team everywhere
in all the bad places
Performing an absurd show
Breaking hearts

Gone again Here again
Gone again Then back
Gone again Here again
Returned so out-of-whack
Gone again, again
Again Again
Again Again

Welcome home
Where you are madly
Brilliant

Because you're down again
Here again, up again
All around again again
Then you win
Every turn of phrase, all the days
Every phase beginning
Every morning
And ending every morning
You mourn for no particular
loss, you are lost only
a moment, but you hone it
Yes darling you cherish
that smile
The pleasant weather says
Please stay awhile and

You do because the weather is nothing new

Darling you
Grow again Shrink again
Gone again Then back
I disappear again
Again...
Again...

Yet it seems life is not repetitive

Do what you know is right
The fae-eyed stare
Pulls you outward
Thank them for the cool air
Brushing your feverish hair
Stop walking
Sit down before the world
Falls on your shoulders


I care enough to
bake a batch of innocence
before I go and
I struggle with my sweaters
everytime that it snows
And some days are more
difficult
than others, yes I'm not
often present in front
of the mirror
But give me a little time
to buy new furniture
And put things back
where they belong
Won't be long

Soon
I will swim without falling
Soon
I'll be able to observe
strangers while sitting
on a park bench
without being accused
of stalking

Soon
I can pause
for comedic timing [thank you, thank you]
Soon
maybe I'll have a new
best friend who I can
make out with
strings attached
And he'll like my hair
(...as much as I do)
Soon
people will say things
and really fathom
their words
They're wrong--
Won't be long

Until
I have a little fun
Until
I get to see someone
fall in love
Until
we crash and dance and
burn simultaneously
as if dying after living
only a short time
that felt long
Until
I die alone but maybe
a bit happy on the side
Then until
I live again

You say to yourself,
"Do what you know is right
and hang strife from the sun"
How do I know when I've
won?
("Won" is just a letter
and an apostrophe from
"won't"
And that's the funny thing
The future hasn't
met us yet, but it knows
how to play games)
Here's the perfect analogy
ever created:
To reach the answer
is to dig down down down
to china!

Yet doesn't it feel like
a daydream?
Like befriending your
favorite celebrity or perhaps
even seeing the end
of a war begun before
your lifetime

When all you can do is

Sit down, stop walking
before the future clutches
your arms, pressing
hard.
This is when you pull outward
and away.
You stare with those
unblinking, glassy eyes
who look omnipotent because
you're middle-aged and
they contain the
words from your wild youth.
(And with these words I can say
'I love you', future which I
will come to know.)

The closet which is warm
and cautious
has enough goals to drive-by
Hit-and-run ridding of
the winning that I live by
I struggle to walk in flip-flops
in the summer
But remind me that I'm
somewhat lost and I enjoy it,
sort of, once in a while,
Especially when everything
comes together again

It's alienation across the nation.


End of the break
the whistle's blowing
The sailors going only a short way
to heavens
Subterranean souls, yet
extraterrestrial minds
(I want to have a magnificent, celestial time)
Someone is dead
True, someone might be
curled in dread, somewhere
But the staff chooses not to
voice these concerns
to their guests

They-are-all
transported
to a place where their veins
don't show up blue
under that black light, yellow
dans-le-ciel
It's a dalliance for souls
(They are all lost.)
A denouement for souls
(How much does it cost?)

Better question,
who sends them here
(Every zephyr is cold)
who sends them here
to die and behold?
If I had a friend
they would ask,
"Why so alone?"
Because I move with the

Tintinnabulation across the nation.
People saying the most
cringe-worthy---
Like the nation
I fear I have become
an *imbrication
repeating myself in every
application
Working on that steamboat
the-band-wagon
isn't as good as it gets
Saccharine, summery lake
Do we, perhaps, need to escape?

And, perhaps, we can.

Dominated as we are
by Society, who is crying in need
Believes we must be a
panoply!