My Purse Committed Suicide
in the middle of WalMart at 6:32 p.m.
on a Friday. It
from the childrens safety seat
with an explosive thud
on the barren white floor. The entrails
of my life spread, a visceral
for everyone to see. My key collection,
an homage to laziness
fanned an array
of past mistakes. Bitter metal
memories of exs
and motorized lemons landed at my feet.
I jumped out of the
before they could touch me, but not
soon enough for my panic pills
to see me,
save themselves. My heart
already racing like a NASCAR
from seeing my last menstrual pad, flapping,
unwrapped, its wings waving
goodbye to my uterus and the world,
me past conduct considered
to be civil. I scrambled for my little white
prescription angels, forced them
into my mouth with both hands,
dry bitterness and momentary relief
before I realized the
of pity were for me.
Whose Your Daddy?
Barbie is pregnant. After all
these years, she is
glowing in the Happy
Family of her title. Ken is
he is not
the brightest doll in the toy box, but last
time he checked
(this morning) he was still
anatomically incorrect. So was Barbie.
at least thats what he was told
when he called the help line. Great!
Immaculate conception. Just what they needed:
more press. He could see
now: [Non-denominational couple
next on Jerry Springer.
With special guests:
Buddha, Jesus, and Allah]. Can a god even take
paternity test anyway!?! Oh the humanity . . .
Somebody please melt my head
before it explodes.
is Teddy Bear Picnic Day according to the memo
calendar. Teddy Bear Picnic Day,
the implications are . . . disturbing
to say the least. I am sure
the intensions (or I hope the intentions)
the day were dripping with childlike frivolity:
bring a teddy
bear to a picnic in the park;
throw your teddy bears
their own picnic
in the playroom. But
the wording is wrong. The official designation
Bear Picnic Day congers cannibalistic images
meaningless massacre. My mind flips
through would-be crime scene shots
of teddy heads on a platter, perhaps
with apples in their mouths. Side
of fluffy ear dippers, followed by paw puffed pastries.
the page over, scenes of the slaughter[house]
resonate worse. Sanitary
uniformed butchers stringing toys up by their toes.
later disgorged filler flies across the floor only
to have its
evidence swept quickly
towards the trash shoot. I shudder
(damned but delightful) thought:
the perfect picture of transgression
from the innocence of childhood into the callous
indifference of being
a grown up.
slippered midnight mind trips lead
me backwards in
of silly sheep dressed like flowers,
I pick them to
in my hair, though their constant
baaanter makes my insomnia
worse. I laugh at what the coroner
would think if I died in this mental
state. Would he see me for what I
have found? *sigh* I doubt
eyes register that particular shade