Jacqueline Czel
To Catch a Falling Star
They're going
to regurgitate glitter LIVE on TV today! They're going to vomit silver, bronze, and gold like bulimics before the war starved world, clinging to life a few jet setting hours away. They'll rehash and totally trash old broads in tired red dresses, right off the rack, spacing out, spacing out at old needles tracks a zero zombie faux pas there amid the other amphetamine induced fashion messes clutching to the shadows of youth and strands of ghost town tumble weave, someone's fake hair truth. They're off to clutter curious minds with vicious assessments of Liberace sequins clinging to plastic boobs, sitting beneath new noses and above and the boniest of surgically made asses, while offering some of their stale insider crumbs to the plump lower classes. They'll pick at carcasses and pull on sinew like hyenas and vultures gorging on a feast of stitched maggots, day old crassness and make Sambo jokes about the accordion monkeys, propped up plastic doll pretty, Barbie pretty industry cyborgs, auto tuned junkies. Applause. Applause. Applause. Not Willing to Draw Straws
I looked at her,
she looked at me, he looked at us, we mute three, all shrugging shoulders and shaking our heads simultaneously in front of the big man, who clearly did not understand; conference or not, We, individually, do not go there; solidarity solidarity solidarity he can select another, each of us is staying right here, because the stories of the not too distant past, still manage to manacle our educated minds, so we don't easily venture down there, save for the dutiful call to a family reunion where there's safety in numbers, amid a swimming school of clan colored tee-Shirts, led by an ancient light by day, Hoo Doo by night, great, great aunt with a hard to understand Mound Bayou accent, not so long descended from dangling peaches, shackled to tales of horror and imprinted images of burned and lynched men, we forever, rope scarred are never free of that - so to stay far North of the edge of that red river, we, who do not trust that modern thought ever arrived safe there or settled into the silt next to the lingering spirit of Emmett Till all these years later, push back. |
Sympathy for A Some Kind of Sister
That
twitchy, bitchy, wispy, lipsy, extravagant fancy, nancy with the extra long nails and extended locks, and a four O'clock shadow that often ticks and tocks as she tsks because mother nature, the Gods, and birth fairies screwed up royally when they missed her private parts, cried like any woman would when her Romeo fooled around with someone else, so I guess I guess, she's a real member of the Pussy Cat Club now. The Season is Woman
She is scarlet,
shades of red, the jezebel, the strumpet, the doxy of death She is crimson and burgundy shades, shades, parting shades of a turning hue she is a blazing orange a blazing orange, setting the horizon on fire too, while dancing upon a fading firmament; fallen far from Spring grace, turning her wantoness away from tender lilacs and summer blues, no innocent birds or bees drink of her Autumn dew; She is scarlet, she is brown, she is yellow kneeling down she is ripe, she is red she is a gasp of passion lingering in a leaf littered bed. Urban Fairy Godmother
She whispered,
"Baby, I'm going to grant you tainted love and twisted words, a few junkies, sad alcoholics, social workers, and lecherous love in rodent riddled walk-ups, smack dab in the middle of urban decay because I'm fresh out of uptown stability, good husbands, diamond rings and money today, on this your red carpet premiere ~ birthday, but I think at the bottom of my threadbare glitter dust bag, I've got some backbone left but this is it kid, this is it, I'm so sorry, so sorry, I ain't got nothing else."
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Old Pirate
They are buried beneath the sand,
from what I can already see, some hidden treasures and a few unholy terrors, his salty eyed subconscious keeps somewhere under layers of silt, inside a gilded Pandora's box, I know from his wandering gaze, that journey hardened stare, it's better to not be the one, to locate the X on his mental map and turn the black skeleton key inside his heavy lock. Carrion
When
I'm gone, they can go ahead and analyze my life pick it apart like starved vultures, my choices, my mind, any off beat strife, or curious origins and sort through the putrefaction to their satisfaction rotting words, with flesh ripped from bones, a postmortem selective for literary coyotes, carnivores of quality, indulgent intelligentsia, puffed up verbal overlords, the hyenas might get full the beetles might get bored. Birth of a Salesman
Out there,
slick salesmen say it loud to move the crowds, market it again to reel 'em in, put some sparkle on the gates and food inside in the pen, to keep them lining up like pigs for slaughter, talking of the new model - doodad gizmo gadget are the kids again, yours and mine, your sons and my daughter, who'll just die without it: so they start selling young, using well honed techniques in smiling endearments or tearing supplications, twisted psychology and emotional declarations of 'I'll hate you or love you more,' along with hollow promises to do more chores and I have to say, I'm nearly sold, for quiet, for quiet, some peace and quiet, I'll may acquiescence to the changeling, not quite my child so bent on accomplishing her current goal by smartly conjuring up Willy Loman's soul. Tidings
She treads
the wooden boards, walk whittled well, a smooth groove, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, stepping towards the edge of heaven, stepping towards the familiar gates of hell, pacing, pacing, heart racing, a pivoting human pendulum under a spell, written on the letter in her tremulous hand.
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