Saturday, November 22, 2008

Three by Misti Rainwater-Lites

See That Island

see that island hazy on the horizon
it belongs
to her
she marks her territory
with gushes of menstrual blood
much too terrible to mention
a garden of fetus flowers
keeps the drunk sailors away
rainbow awnings yawn
at the colorless sun
so brutally smug

she’s monster woman
she’s cuntasaurus rex
roaring running ravaging
with talons
that do
not retract
not many believe
her mythology
how she gnaws sharks to death
for breakfast
and yet by the light
of the wan milky moon
she is but
a whisper of a mermaid
beached, broken
one long tail
slapping all forlorn
at the wet mushy sand


Squawking in Circles

In the latest peppermint dream she tried to convince-
she pulled all kinds of rabid bunnies out of her ass-
to convince the populace but especially her dear
martyr mama that she was terribly sick in spirit.
She drove to the store without any money but
it was a dream so she was allowed unlimited
access. With unlimited peppermint dream access
she was so sick in spirit she went to a dirty
poorly stocked grotesquely lit grocery store
and stared bleary eyed at bibs and chintzy toys
hanging from blue infant boy plastic hangers.
She could not decide which luxury to purchase.
99 cents didn’t go nearly as far as it did back
in the days of Bee Gees on the AM radio
and Elvis in Vegas. A sloppy guy on drugs
and his obnoxious girlfriend were loud
and defiant and in her way. She wanted
candy. She wanted apples. She wanted
greeting cards that featured witty penises
and desolate giraffes. She wanted a gun
so she could shoot sloppy guy on drugs
and obnoxious girlfriend out of her weary way.
The cart cluttered an awkward dance of stuck
stuck stuck and shit outta luck. She tried calling
her mother on a cell phone in the dark parking lot
then remembered she could be killed for that.
She wanted to die but she wanted to be
the killer. She poured gasoline into the backseat.
She was so tired she could sleep in a coffin
with no air conditioning or television
for a million worm crawling years.
She drove but couples happy on ridiculous
dates were thick in the streets.
She could not get through the gleeful thick
to Mama or God or Richard Simmons.
David Koresh mocked her in an afterschool
special hologram. She woke up sticky
and sorry with a mouth stuffed with cotton
candy, the fat free kind.


Love is Hurting My Head

I’ve got cancer of the scalp.
My manic nails claw their way
to the toy shop.
The talking ducks are loose.
I can’t hula hoop
my way out of this one, Henry.
I would sell my monkey
for a spot of tea, a bottle of
night night pills and some
olive conditioner.
Nobody these days it seems
is in the market
for an insomniac monkey

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