Good God Mother
I am a straightjacket girl in a ballroom world. I have
forgotten how to follow the glitter-
brick road. Mirrors come to paint me. It tickles.
I laugh and break. Their concentration
requires definition – mine. I look myself up
and down seems to be the only probability. I jump
on one foot in the middle of a rainstorm
hoping to strike right. Wrong!
Everything runs. Back
to basic training I go.
Reverberations. In Blue.
I am a broken hollow
filled with my own echo. I haunt
myself with abandoned
desires designed to trick me
out as “normal.”
It never works. I am immune to the sound
of my own voice (not to mention
my truly pathetic sales pitch). Still
I practice repeating retreating
even reinventing . . . harmony
is the definition
[of so much more than]