My inner queen is out of sorts living on the far east side,
exchanging the green for sidewalk Sundays.
The words foam in my mouth.
Choking with a full mouth fails a poem.
Indistinct chatter is the stuff of poetry.
I hand my dreams over to places,
weathered by the shamans;
numerous little legs running about at top speed.
The pace of milk, blood and meat
rests in white porcelain cups
painted with red and yellow flowers.
The brassy fanfare of a sky of spitting rain
is the festive overture to the short story
that is my life.

11/19/2012

Posted on 11/20/2012
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