It’s another amethyst hued coffee break
and I’m still ugly about it.
Panties and apologies are against my religion
but I am not devout.
The nights with Beethoven on the stereo, black sheets on the windows, candles burning anxious, allergy pills and wine in our blood, the clean sweat and dirty talk, and yes and this the only now, I keep those in my cedar scented curio box with turquoise and the red wish fish I cannot bring myself to kill.
I take the collages and yum dolls to each new tent.
The yum dolls are across the wheel from voodoo dolls.
I don’t wish any former friends or lovers harm.
I wish great fucking good to myself, regardless.
It doesn’t matter what I deserve.
I’m only concerned with what I need.
I need considerable.
The dolls fuck each other crooked and wish me luck. Lots.
One December night in Kerrville, Texas
there were lollipops lit up on a smirking lawn
and I begged him not to leave me there.
One afternoon in the dressing room
(The Wild Zebra…San Antonio, Texas)
the manager Windexed the mirror and told me
he had street smarts, he’d seen his kind before.
“Run, sweetheart. You don’t need that shit.”
And one night I was in Greg’s old bedroom
watching “90210” and he was out the window
and Scotty chased him across the pasture
and the love letters I’d sent were sufficient proof.
There was no helping my kind.
I’m still sitting in the corner sick with a few things.
If it were a cigarette break I would be on the curb
offering up prayers to Ganymede and Loretta Lynn.
Loretta Lynn is still alive and so am I.
The other night in the room with all the stuff
all of which belongs to my sister
I sang “Coal Miner’s Daughter” into a toy microphone.
I felt that shit times a hundred.
Granny brought in green onions from her garden
and fried the catfish Papaw caught at Miller Creek
and I don’t remember the conversations
and I’ve never visited her grave
and I’m sorry for you
but I am much sorrier for me
because being a merciless angel
is my only fetish
and that was taken from me
before I could absorb your sobs.
I’m still listening to Corey Feldman in Santa Cruz.
I’m still feeling my face burn as I turned to the first Leo
in my two-tone brown Ford Granada
and told him that I loved him.
“You’re crazy, Misti,” Jeff said.
Jeff is the only human being on the planet
who consistently
tells me
the truth.

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