An Ecclesiastical Fantastical State-Sponsored Royal Catastrophe Depicted Using Origami and Interpretive Dance

 

Used to be, I couldn't get arrested in this town

even if I sent the cops the photos myself, along

with a menu of suggested charges. 

I should have known, even if only on

an instinctual level, when they held the funeral

first, ahead of my arranged wedding

to some rich-ass fake wearing a rubber nose

and glasses disguise. He wanted to experiment,

but I guess he didn't mean on him.

We were such boneheads, we should have

used our noodles and not reenacted the battle 

of Hastings using pipe cleaner royals

but how were we to know they would seize

power the way they did? Now the cops are

accusing me of bags under my eyes

and deploying every trick in the book to

keep Melvin Belli stuck in traffic while some judge

throws the book at me. A best-seller! Is there

to be no end to my suffering? I am branded

with a red-hot haiku and shuffled off to Buffalo

where it snows all summer and there are no

book shops or street carnivals where a girl

could double as a stilt-walker or a ventriloquist,

speaking from on high this cautionary tale

about the dangers of poetry, Bunsen burners, and robed authorities.

_________

for Word Garden Word List--Tomb Sweeping. 

Music: Gong You Can't Kill Me

Evolution

Others have come out of the sea, you know;
Venus and I decided enough was enough,
and who knows what all those fish and turtles and whatnot were doing,
how much of their little calling cards were mixing with the water.

You'd leave too, if you had an ounce of sense.

So anyway, a seaside town was kind of inevitable;
all there is is sailors, with their endless uniforms to be kept clean,
expecting you to wait for them, staring out of the window like a dork.
Not me, sister.

The moon pulls the tides,
the waves wash the beach--
and all the while the sirens sing
out of reach, out of reach.

I don't do requests. It's "As Time Goes By" or nothing.
Venus and I share a place in town, behind the take-out restaurant.
She walks around naked all afternoon,
then gets dressed at dusk, revving up her bike and taking off.

Me, I lock myself up in the darkroom with my pictures of people, blooms and bugs.

Sometimes I'm asked whether I miss the ocean,
but it hasn't gone anywhere; I'm not in it, that's all,
and I doubt it has ever missed me, not the way it should.
I'll call my book "Wet Foot, Dry Foot" in honor of my migratory nature.

Could you love a girl like me, do you think?
Check out these legs, I'm not a mermaid,
but when I close my eyes sometimes the world seems to sway,
as if it were made of palm trees and breeze.

The moon pulls the tides,
the waves make their soothing susurrant sound--
bold star bright, shy star behind
white on blue in the night, like clouds.
______

Fabulous photograph by Cloudia Charters and used with permission.