Creola the Kind

Hive-heads, you human honeycombs of disordered thought,
drip yourselves out of day rooms across the complex.
You have been made to feel like ants in a land of bustling giants,
each one of them wearing enormous, iron-soled clown shoes,
and I'm here to tell you--
things are about to change.

Come out to the green paradise of the asylum courtyard,
where morning glory and clematis vines climb the catatonics.
Which the cleric, which the classic presenter?
Come to where the learned diagnostician finally shuts his yap
and sits the fuck down 
on a pretty, donated bench depicting tiger swallowtails in flight.

Feel that? Inside your poor flood-damaged skull?
It isn't the medication.
This is real.

Even if you aren't Catholic--
though the mind reels at such easily remediable error--
Creola the Kind can help you.
See her enter by the main gate, with a cheetah on a chain.
The tethered cat is emblematic of the mind caught up in the Play-Doh sludge of encumbering madness.
Enter the healer.
Enter the liberator,
Creola the Kind.

As she joins you in the garden, 
she brings with her the sea breezes characteristic of the Creolan Mission,
though this institution exists landlocked,
blighted,
sandbagged into torpidity by a ballast of text books and dogma.
At the touch of her hand on your cheek,
you begin to feel something nearly forgotten,
as if she carries in her fingers a series of bees
who introduce peace, and a spreading sweetness.

Forget about your doctor.
Her nervous condition has become acute,
causing her to build elaborate nests out of prescription pads.
To burn sacred candles there would only result in disaster.
Instead, my dear florid crazies,
lean into Creola's offered remedy like infants at the breast.
Watch the clouds float by like milkships,
honeyships,
sending nets over the side and into your stormy constellation of symptoms,
plucking you new and gleaming from the tempest.

She is a fisher of men, and more particularly of women,
sent here with your own personal Bonus Round from God.
She is Our Lady of the Falling Piano,
Creola the Kind.
________

written with inspiration from a word list invented by mood wings!

image: the ridiculously cool Cristina Scabbia

 
 
 
 

The Adventures of Vajaysus, Girl Savior

Vajaysus, the Girl Savior, walks into Danny's Coffee Shop in Norman.

"Woman!" cries Chloe, and they high five and hip bump. The Girl Savior is well-liked here.

The little bell rings above the door. It is the Dark Haired Chick, tossing some guy out into the street, some guy who came too close to "her" booth, where the Queen of the Vampires (in black panther form) is shredding the vinyl and going "rowww rowww!" in an ecstasy of approval. 

"Did you know," Chloe says, "that every time a bell rings, a Succubus gets her wings?"

"Shut up," mumbles the Succubus around a mouthful of chocolate donut. 

Meanwhile, Vajaysus the Girl Savior has sprawled on the couch by the front window. She orders a mocha latte. Someone asks her why she is called Vajaysus, isn't that objectifying?

"It's Asian Indian," she says, lighting a cigarette off the end of Denise the waitress's. When she exhales, she looks like a dragon, except sexy. "My mother is called Kali. Actually, her name is Kelly-Jo, but what with accents and stuff, it ended up being Kali."

The Succubus perks. "The Goddess of Death?"

Vajaysus the Girl Savior and Chloe idly throw sugar packets at each other as Vajaysus answers. "That was all a misunderstanding. Mom was working as a nail tech at this place in Mumbai, and this chick walks in and wants a mani, so she has her sit in the chair and starts working on her, and they're talking away about men and shit," --she pauses to take a long sip of her mocha latte--"and so Mom starts doing her nails in this nice pink shade, when the chick does a face plant on the table and then falls to the floor dead. Mom was like, 'whoa!' and it turned out the woman had a fatal allergy to O.P.I. products or something. I mean, what was she even doing there, right? Duh. She should have said something, or gone for the henna tats instead. But nooOOOoo, so that's where that whole Goddess of Death thing got started."

"You lie like a rug!" exclaims Chloe.

"No, seriously," says Vajaysus the Girl Savior. 

The Queen of the Vampires is half conked out, lying across the Dark Haired Chick and getting an ear scratch; she is doing that contented cat rumbling thing.

Danny himself comes in from outside. "Hello, ladies," he says in his endearing raspy voice.

"Hi Dannyyyyyy!" comes the chorus.

"You old fart," adds Chloe under her breath, but loud enough to be heard. When they all laugh at once they sound like angels, Danny's coffee shop angels.

Then the bell above the door is ringing, people are coming in and the night goes on, like a drop of mocha latte sliding down the side of a smooth ceramic mug.
_______