Sunday, April 10, 2011
Raise a child up in the way it should go,
And even the bad apple will fall damn near the tree.
Mama took every pill in the house--
She was country but tried to be posh--
Either way, Mama, they bury you in the dirt.
I'm the sale rack girl...
I ate an entire tray of cookies instead...
And I'm higher than a mailman on pay day.
I need to tell--
I need to tell you and Dead Mama something--
I'm out by the pool in my pepto-dismal pink dress and Payless boots,
Aqua-Jesus lives out of reach of the squalor and stupidity of this world,
Down there in His perfect kingdom at the bottom of the in-ground.
Down there, far below the oil-tainted dead leafy scum at the surface,
He lives with Mary Magdamermaid
And several trident-bearing Neptunes from the Home Depot.
Aqua-Jesus, you're my last chance gas, my last call at Corinne's, my tampon machine in the restroom of my extremity.
Aqua-Jesus, here comes the apple that Eve should not have ever tried.
Call it a dive,
Hoping that, face down in the crappy filthy pool, I can see you better.
Make me your goldfish--
Overfeed me til I die,
Keep me in your cool coral reef shower curtain world
Where no one hurts,
Let me be your beloved barnacle.
Let me quit this fucking world and float like a cute seaweed,
Down where even Your sacred blood looks like strawberry jam from a squeezie;
Down where every scream is muted in a gentle rising of bubbles,
As if the whole thing were just a giant champagne flute,
And we were just happy half-smashed lovers
Oh baby, getting it right at last.
for One Shoot Sunday
photograph by Lauren Randolph