Coal Black is a fictional character, written as such. Please visit my main blog–written ham-handedly by me–HERE.
“why the drama?” you said, and all gf eyes turned my way. “we can be friends with you both.”
oh god!
i shouldn’t laugh so hard with pins in my mouth.
_______
for November Themes. I used “drama.”
you said that dragonflies only live a day.
that’s bullshit.
they just can’t remember
who they were yesterday
or what they had for breakfast.
when you’ve got legs that long
life is an hour by hour thing–
when you’ve got wings that wide
here comes everybody, with nets and pins.
you said that dragonflies only live a day.
that’s bullshit.
it’s just
they can’t for the life of them remember how they got here,
how to act,
who they can trust,
or what the fuck to do now.
for quickly. dumpster dive.
______
she listens to the dead men sing
under the dryer
in the salon
reading cosmo.
(if those articles really worked, oh the
glaze-eyed goofy-grinned guys there’d be,
wandering in droves down university street.)
she’s listening to dead men sing
in her head
when i lower my face slowly in front of hers and
fake smile a hi, with a finger twirl.
look up from the huddle, helmet girl.
here comes trouble.
i have come to dig up jeremy
out of your stupid little cemetery of luv.
hang on j, imma comin’.
i bet those cops had never been in judy’s salon before.
they really do put their hands on your head
when they toss you in the cruiser.
lookit, evidence, stupid blond hair in my hot little hand.
jeremy, i have avenged thee,
and taken scalps.
see?
(man that’s a lot of damage. one word–conditioner.)
baby powder girl
Posted: 09/27/2017 in house of crazy, house of fools, house of love, house of women“oooh, have another hit….of sweet air”–quicksilver messenger service
have another hit
of me,
you said.
tilt back your head
and breathe deep.
there are
different kinds of
flashing lights.
both make your heart
beat faster.
now I know
that you were just
neighborhood stuff,
and that the buzz
was me.
if the cops stop you,
breathe deep and chill, baby powder girl.
they’ll catch on that they’re just
chasing tail
and wasting daylight on an empty dress.
i’m sweet tea and hemlock,
a little bit of three in the afternoon in my house full of
dust bunnies and dylan cranked to crack the china,
or
i might take a book out to my queenly throne
in the suicide rose garden,
with its au-gust reception line of neighborhood cats
mer-rowing views your type can never quite work out.
i’m an emerald isle
shanty irish
corned beef and semtex kind of girl,
sun dappled, dozing, day late and dollar short diva
too cool for school,
too old for bullshit,
an old molly you’ll never notice enough to describe later to those nice young men
with their notepads and a 5-minute o.k. from the intern who saved your life.
_____
for this one’s for you.
mama say, god’s gon gitcha,
gitcha for that–
little smart-mouth big-britches
alley cat.
yeah god’s gon get me
a fine girlfriend–
tongue gotcher cat
til the damn world end.
mama slap me hard
then she get real still–
say if god don’t gitcha
i sure as hell will.
_______
waving my rainbow flag for Quickly “do you believe?”
last house on the dead end,
no house across the steet
cos the one that used to be there burned down before i was born.
in the field there were old bedsprings,
allergy grass,
and tall big-leafed hollyhocks with pink blooms.
i decided they were the ghosts of old church ladies,
bent-backed from slicing pie at receptions.
every morning in summer, i waved to them,
wished them a blessed day,
and waited til i was out of sight to, as mama called it, start up with my bullshit.
a cardinal and a rat at my feeder
dead porcelain doll in my hands.
people no one can see on the wraparound porch
like a row of ampersands.
the dark bird is back
bigger than before, not as big as when she’s done
what made you think, little chick,
that you were anyone?
the dark bird is back
meaner than before, and hungrier by half
what made you think, little one,
you were getting out of that?
the dark bird
the dark bird
she’s back.
