Retired Show Horse Becomes Unwitting Real-Life Unicorn
As if! More like I’m a freak show. And no,
kid that’s not a plastic cone glued to my forehead,
that actually hurts, so don’t fucking touch! It’s bad
enough you laugh and point and pretend to believe
in magic. Hey, how about my three wishes:
1. Quit putting your grubby little hands on me.
This is not a petting zoo. And the next one of
you who flashes a camera in my face is going
to get a first-hand up-close-and-personal
with my Sean Penn impersonation.
2. Make the humiliation stop. Seriously,
they even made me a Facebook page. International
high tech humiliation. Lucky fucking me!
3. Kill me now! Somebody? Anybody?
Or at least put out a hit on my money-hungry owners
who will do anything to earn a buck AND keep
their hands clean.
Bastards! Quit riding me. I’m supposed to be retired.
And I am not buying the “We have no idea how
those three pieces of wood got jammed into his skull”
bit. What? Like maybe I fell into a wooden fence
while I was skydiving last week? P-lease! I eat
dinner, take a nap, and Bam! wake up to find you
giving national interviews about my miraculous
Jesus crown in reverse. Is that the new spin?
Maybe it’s stigmata – equine version. Hurry,
somebody better check my hooves for bleeding holes.
Get a grip. Can anyone say Ruffie? Who wants
to bet I couldn’t pass a post-show drug test right now
if my life depended on it? And all I want
to what the hell did I do to get mixed up
with the likes of you people. I must have had a hole
in my head. . .
Oops, my bad, that’s exactly what I ended
up with.
Eating Chicken
fingers out of a Bud Light box
because the dishwasher
broke. I am (who isn’t?)
bored and basic
ally belligerent
because this bastard world has
labeled me: designated
bitch. I know
that is why I got escorted out
of financial aid and off campus for expecting
civility. Common
courtesy got flushed with my patience,
but it’s still my fault it takes 16 people to
wipe one girl’s ass with the paperwork that grants
me money [and permission] to breathe
only for the three miles it takes me
to drive home and hand over my keys
to the repo man. He has been waiting for
me. Not a good sport,
I spit
at his feet. Fuck
you for living; for having
a sadistic job; for screwing others.
He laughs. I don’t
care. Grab the nearest lawn chair and crazy-
glue it to the floor-
boards of the beat up anonymous mess
of a Frankencar
my boyfriend has somehow hallucinated
will suffice in this particular pickle
I am in. With it’s new-fangled front seat
of pasty plastic and never-a-lost-key screw-
driver ignition, I might be able
to go to work tomorrow if
I decide to summon something (like courage)
to counter the alarm
clock’s rage.
And my own.
Lesbian Barbie
was not quite as disappointed with Ken
as she should have been
once she saw him undressed . . .
