who is powerful?
brown cows, green avacodos?
fish oil peaks tuna.
my daddy was an alligator wrastler.
i was never dangerous enough or verdant enough to woo.
i used to try to distract him from his gator grappling
with one girl synchronized aquatic ballets
or dangling baby salamanders from my ear lobes.
listen to me daddy,
see me daddy,
pappa, can you hear me,
as you climb the jacob’s ladder out from beneath our toes as we steal
your amber blush rose cross to the lotus rich marsh in the azure.
my 2 cents.
illustratins on a stool.
men hide behind words.
women hide below pictures.
word and picture, mythical, magic mirror mirage.
where is the third nail?
“get off the cross, mary, we need the wood!”
he wonders if it is late enough at night for morning wood.
he silently admonishes him for being a have playing
he imagines what having him tastes like.
nails across buttocks.
persecution sipped slowly.
“Hurry, get Frank! She’s waving a pistol on some lady’s porch!”
“Where is he?”
“Just find him!’
“Honey, what’s wrong? Put the gun down and tell me?”
“Your son beat my boy and took his twenty dollars. I want it back.”
“Here, take my twenty dollars. I just want to squash this.”
“NO, I want his!”
“He’s not here.”
She starts wailing and swinging the gun around the lady’s front porch.
“Sounds like someone’s shooting off some fireworks,” she smiles.
“You’re an ex Marine?”
“There’s no such thing as an EX Marine! How old are you?”
“My son is 21. I’ll tell the truth to save the devil. We were the first to go in, last to get out. I’m trained, fine, for death. I’m invincible, but a teardrop can kill me. You don’t know. You’re just a baby. How old are you?’
“My son is 21.”
men love funny women.
to really know a man
pull the one liners back
to reveal what he is healing.
and, trust your tears.