never was a Cornflake Girl

I have a feeling that his post will be ramble-y.

More ramble-y than usual? you might ask.

Fuck you, I’ll reply.

And I would also argue that as long as I don’t drumble, it’s probably okay.

drumble definition

I can say I don’t drumble because, in general terms, most people find me vastly amusing.

If more than just a little tangential.

tangent vector.png

Truth is, I know exactly where I am and where I’m going as I do my spiel. It just isn’t apparent to everyone else involved in the conversation.

If you say to me, Take me to XXXX, then chances are I will freeze up for a moment, blinking out zip-zap thoughts, looking vaguely like I’m having a seizure. And then I will grab your hand and run the opposite direction you intended and take the scenic route.

Because my intention is not just to get you there, but to have you truly appreciate where there is when we finally arrive there.

If we even arrive. I’m okay with reconsidering the final destination mid-route. As long as we learned something and had a good time and no one was maimed or killed.

I know that probably will cause some straight-laced types to freak out.

What can I say? “I swim oceans of the fractal” to quote a poem in two dozen roses.

This is probably why, in a former life, I was told I should quit my day job and become a stand-up comedian like Robin Williams, whose birthday FYI was July 21.

I don’t know about you, and I’m not Catholic or anything (Robin was Episcopalian which he described as “Catholic Light”) but I dedicate a moon to Mr. Mork in the summer.

So, here is what I was really thinking when I wrote this poem… over the last couple days.

I was thinking about Tori Amos, whose birthday FYI is August 22.

There was a time from the mid-1990s to early 2000 (when I was a formally practicing witch and I wrote Witchcraft on all those forms they give you at doctor’s offices, etc. that ask you to state your belief system so you can get spiritual comfort if you are dying), when I was totes obsessed with Scarlet, as she calls her alter ego.

At the concert I attended in Phoenix in 1999, as I have mentioned earlier, the band started playing the intro to “God” while the tech guys flooded the stadium with smoke.

I breathed nothing but clove cigarettes; they were ubiquitous. Went with the territory.

Kind of like the time my second ex-husband and I went to see Bob Dylan in October 2002 at the Arizona State Fair, when I was in the first trimester with our daughter.

So. Much. Pot. Smoke. Everbody. Must. Get. Stoned. Hey. You. Get. Me. Some. Nachos.

She came out fine, I think. Too late to reconsider that choice, but I would do it again.

Back to 1999, Tori took the stage and a wave of energy surged the crowd. She thrust her pelvis in pulses towards the piano bench.  People loved it. She mounted the seat like a horny boyfriend’s cock and sanity was somewhere else, but not where I stood in awe.

I found myself holding somebody’s hand and looked over and it wasn’t my husband’s.  He had decided that he wasn’t into my enthusiasm (no surprise) and took a cab home.

It was one of many emotional betrayals, which had started with his decision to identify as transgender and spring it on  me as an “anniversary present” in 1999.

He isn’t transgender now, thank you Facebook for the information. And in the meantime, he raped me because he wasn’t happy and wasn’t sure and wasn’t whatever.

Fuck. Him. Fuck. Lies. Fuck. Rape. Fuck. Hate. Fuck. Sin. Fuck. Anything but good sex.

Yep, shit got real.  Still, it’s the past. And it doesn’t do anything to touch my love of Tori.

She was a preacher’s daughter and yet found her own spirituality.

She was raped at knifepoint when she was 21 and that trauma lead her to staff phones for RAINN.

She loves Neil Gaiman, and he loves her,  so she sang the song at the end of Good Omens.

How could I possibly not love a Cornflake Girl such as her?  I’m honored to even mention her name as I post my latest poem.

vengeance

too many bad men have fucked me
to not be on my guard.
when one is ambushed, then laid down,
she strikes back just as hard.

my pa, he wasn’t a good man.
my ma, she wasn’t there.
I’ve been on my own since sixteen,
left to mine own poor care.

I skirted work at the whorehouse.
I rode stage, paid my due.
then a man, I fought, but he stuffed
his foot into my shoe.

I may dress fine now, may enjoy
card rounds at the table;
and if it comes to drinking hooch,
trust I’m more than able.

still, I’ll sit so I see the door,
my pistol in my lap;
and when he arrives, my rapist,
trust I’ve loaded the trap.

how are you, miss, here by yourself?
he whispers and I sigh.
no, I’m not alone, not this time,
I stand, let bullets fly.

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Hours I own all of these ideas, but none of these images.
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