let there be lettuce
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Ze Trash Can
Innocent Secrets
Sometimes, not often, I listen to opera.
Loud.
Really, really loud.
And nobody knows that I do.
(So loud I can't hear myself think.)
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Over My Shoulder
Because the light switch isn't until the bottom of the stairs,
(Oh, and also because monsters live there,)
I nearly never go to the cellar. But today I did.
I diabolically shufti'd through a secret box of Stuff That Wasn't Mine
And found a love letter. Well, that served me glad. No?
Yes.
And I tried to read it, frog-swimming through through the sizzly desperate passion.
I could smell the tears through the damp of the cellar.
It was a love letter sent to my sweetheart, written many red hot moons ago.
It spoke of hope and warmth and embarrassing but real and aching need.
Two people locked in earnest, solemn desire for the other.
An honest belief in what would come.
Coyly I looked away, shy to have intruded on such an affair.
And I tucked it back in the secret box of Stuff That Wasn't Mine, unfinished.
I didn't read the ending - it wasn't mine to read.
But I'll know the ending in due course.
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Getting to know you
You were supposed to be inspiring.
Where is the stupid cheesy ball of awe?
It's not lodged in my throat where it should be.
Where are the dreamy sonnets?
Where are the silly long words?
The self important reverence
with the big pink arrows pointing to my humbleness?
See me! See me rhyme! I am humed by your curvey vistas!
But no, my little Bumble Bee, you are a painted whore.
A fake.
A flim flam.
A faux fantasy.
just because your legs aren't spread doesn't make it art.
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