Monday afternoon the green glow rises from the tips of birdless wings
soaring over the giant rifting river
gulls flapping, fishing the incessant ripples
reaching their breaks in the water
for hope.
If a red tide rises up, will you roll around in it,
paint yourself and the town red with cherry vodka?
Shotglass sequins sprinkled onto table tops
soaked up by hair and houndouts
replaced by upside-down empty glasses,
the pink cheeks and nipples flashing against
a sea of everyday brine
like a game of musical chairs
where sunshine means sitting on the floor
as goblets are filled to the brin with the best of the kingdom's gold.
Viking hats--alcoholic helments--rise over the kingdom as the light of luck smashes to the floor,
covered with the shame of a brown paper bag.
Why so much gladness and glee when the warriors are to venture out to battle the toughest demon of all?
Why rejoice and sing victory praises when those left behind are certain to lose.
Tears could not quench the spirit of this sisterhood
Ditto the the war cry's call
And happy fucking birthday to all!
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment