Bombs go off.
No amount of dusting can keep it from happening.
When I was a kid,
We rode on yellow buses to see different junk.
They counted heads.
They said, "stay with the group!"
Teachers and moms kept a sharp eye on us.
Her eye is on the sparrow.
She sent us on this field trip,
Packed together like lunch for later,
You the pbj, me the apple.
Fissures in the earth open up.
Mad dictators push the button.
I don't think anybody is going to be able to line up, single file.
The life I was given, I have lived.
Chick In The Sky said,
"Be a woman, an American, a smart-mouth by nature.
Buck the tide. Do me proud. Go, girl. Here's a pen.
Do it all from this little flesh jar I shall place you in."
There are germs that wipes can't kill.
There are voices in the wrong people's heads.
I have written poems until my notebooks tilt in stacks like drunks at the bar.
I have told those I love that I love them every day
Just in case of runaway trains.
Raise the hammer, I'm okay with it.
Crack the jar, I'll fly out and up,
Perched once again in the salon-gorgeous hair
Of the Goddess.
for Out Of Standard with Izy