If it were my poem, I'd start with the death of the mother.
She unblocks the cave and collapses dead in the opening.
Then working backward, her labor in arranging the eggs alone in the cave underwater.
After receiving the sperm in neatly delivered packets, she stores it in her undercarriage.
But both lovers die, separated by labor.
The beginning and the end.
My bones pop.
I said I don't want to be the educator and she said but you are.
A Goal To Be The Best Is A Good Way To Get Disappointed
A flipper is a grille.
A glamour pageant is age appropriate.
Full glitz is cupcake style.
But I thought it was Flipper, Flipper, king of the sea-chicken,
faster than lightning. I was wrong.
This is my Pro-Am kimono. If you have any questions about swimwear,
you will need to get approval!
This is my scientifically patented spray tan to go.
Its blossom vapors brush my face gently.
A pageant mom has a weird labyrinth whisper.
A body is built out of milky white bones.
Glitz is permitted during interviews and glamour wear.
Picture this: cascading shelter of flaps, a chemise at dawn;
a majestic torrent of nature on the flowing horizon,
a costume that is also defense mechanism.
A former pageant princess bade farewell to all that
tasteful collarbone essence. How she now
imagines banal yearning without soundtrack
at all! How she doesn't miss that budding,
the Ramada Inn carport dusks!
Meanwhile, I look in the mirror, overdue
for neuron update, foggy synapses: I think I can
get this hollow spine to undulate, so a painkiller
is all I'll need. Soft light on my sunken cheeks.
She will be a bride and have all her anxiety
on her special day. Just picture it. She has a message
for other brides: it's worth any price to sparkle.
It is the moment you want. Now you go.
A mermaid cut is an action figure sacrifice.
Ruffles are rock and roll, sexy.
An older bride should not have to feel bad.
Do you have any idea how big Staten Island is?
I'll tell you.
The message: you deserve to have your dreams
come true, even if your dreams are stupid.