Heartburn because it’s Thursday
and I rationalize making cookies
to help mask whatever is happening
with my skin as I prepare to be social

A tiered jewelry box
filled with scratched pearls
and dinged diamonds
is no match
for raw dough on the tongue-
it helps my hips to settle,
distracting me from Warhol’s vampire battler
fucking me against the wall
(to save my life of course)

That may have been a memory
or a fantasy,
no matter

I missed my Wednesday ramble
but no one else did,
reminding me we’re all fallalery
(shining at least some of the time)

There are no endings – nothing lasts;
it’s a delicate balance
I walk, like a jester
(or a boy I knew in college)
with too many heavy balls to carry…
laughing through awkward pauses.
Do I really make any difference
in a single day? Of course not.
I’m the mistress of Harvey the rabbit,
a virtual pet,
a mother of teenagers,
between gigs and looking…
but there is no harbor,
just a boat in dry dock
and it’ll be awhile until it rains.

Making it in silence
like Theda Bara
with a moon over her shoulder
and a man at her neck,
nuzzled and twisted
– no time for rest while
being speared senseless from behind
(who says she needed an apple crate?).
She liked her neck bent too far…

Men like Boris and Buster
sneezed magic into small frames
but the beast used the whole
damn landscape to woo her
into submission, a relatively common
mid-century bracket
explained by talking animals
and hifalutin dance moves (in capes).

Moaning is meaningless
unless someone’s there to catch it.
Her release sounded like shuffling
and looked like a Ferris wheel
from beneath, all spun glitter,
tales of derring-do spilling from cars
into a thick night.