Metamorphosis into Bureaucrat
My hips are a desk.
From my ears hang
chains of paper clips.
Rubber bands form my hair
My breasts are wells of mimeograph ink.
My feet bear casters.
is a badly organized file.
My head is a switchboard
where crossed lines crackle
My head is a wastebasket
of worn ideas.
Sep 9, 2015
Burying Blues for Janis
Your voice always whacked me right on the funny bone
of the great-hearted suffering bitch fantasy
that ruled me like a huge copper moon with its phases
until I could partially break free.
How could I help but cherish you for my bad dreams?
Your voice would grate right on the marrow filled bone
Sep 10, 2015