february’s juneteenth festival



it’s blistering in the summer so

	they do it here in spring	where

strip malls with capped and whitened teeth have

	hungrily consumed this placid desert plain;

		from his magic kitchen 	voodoo daddy grins bayouless

			triumphantly out of place.



ambling along i’d swear i just passed

	the mom from “family ties”		furtively chomping starburst—

		ecstasy makes one crave sugar/

		steals the ability to sleep.



time in mommyland runs triplespeed

	half a blink and i’m back to	

		overanalyzing the airport’s poor choice of carpeting 

                                 (they haven’t heeded my suggestion)

			contentedly allowing randomness to win:		maybe

with enough mr. hancocks we can make it legal 

	to decapitate miss ignorance…		but would jacques pepin marry

                                                                                    a girl like me?



all boys have fatal flaws: they don’t believe in

                                            following love 

                                            eating pussy 

                                            commitment or

                        they stare at dirty socks and dream of doing anyone else instead

jacques was never very nice to claudine.



even ella eventually gave up hope and

raised her sister’s kids:        a tasketfull of fans but no one

                  to watch over her       	       and her heart never did belong to daddy

legs lost at 75 she still sang amazingly—     so few of us leave the planet whole.



waiting here with 4 new shirts 4 new bras $40-powder and one conversation

fear of the future has been temporarily alleviated

            knowing parents can cure any ailment i made sacrifices:

                   unspiked my hair, put in the littler lip ring.



feet shuffle by           herded in broods

each one drawing me a step closer             to leaving this shopscape

                                  every up has a down waiting      to kick your ass as you go.



humanity remains an enigma;

        some stare like i’ve got      	   fingers growing out my nose while

others wait and hover silly just to hold

open the door for me and ask        moronic eyebrow-dropping questions   

(got any 

piercings

							the belt?)

below

i

                                want only to remind them

                           tits were not made to be gawked at.



life will certainly be simpler

when my corset arrives

            	     and i can squeeze my 25 inches        	(a ½ inch lie)



             two or three

down

                 then hopefully grow faint with

                       the shallow breathing entailed

     draw my palm dramatically toward my cheek,    sigh

             despondently         at the trouble of it all

                      		suitably overwhelmed by the heat 

and let dear ole jacques

                                 emancipate me for awhile.