Ramona Of The Crows
When she lies down, she becomes a superhighway--
The day goes by,
Each detail with its own little headlights;
None of them can read a map.
Well fuck me, thinks Ramona Of The Crows,
Who can sleep on the center line?
All day, she longs just to close her eyes.
If you and a coffee pot were drowning...
Well, it's probably better not to ask.
She begins to feel a little unreal,
Like a movie of herself.
She would love to pitch a meltdown, and go stalking back to her trailer like a deliciously offended Queen,
But there is no trailer--
There is only her life, and its million little cars.
At night, her body is like a roomful of restless spirits.
Her neck says, "I have lost so much. The things that I love vanish."
Her shoulder says, "I have failed at business. I am ruined."
Her knee just whines like a cranky toddler.
There are only two things that can make Ramona Of The Crows sleep--
A really good orgasm or three,
And televised baseball.
By the third inning, the little stitched spheres become sheep, leaping over the fence,
And the droning announcer becomes the Sandman.
Together in a car, they all set out--
The players, the sheep, the announcer, the restless spirits, Ramona Of The Crows, everybody.
Soon, she is inside herself, keeping herself awake.
She gets up, muttering, "I'm not serene enough for this shit,"
And puts on the coffee.
She is Ramona Of The Crows, Queen of the Dawn, lost Daughter of the Dream-Time.
Don't fuck with her.
She is a woman and a gypsy,
Always there, and always gone.