MEMORY LESSON

Once upon a blue coconut sno cone I was a Snoopy diary.
There were exclamation marks and scratch-n-sniff stickers.
These days are tiger's blood in flavor roller rink in tone
and I am compromised rainbow unicorn diary
with busted lock.
You're welcome.
De nada.
Hide it under a bushel?
No!
I'm gonna let it SHINE.
If Satan can't blow it out, baby,
you know your ass
is outta luck.
May the Billy Corgan ice cream truck save us all
from chainsaw wielding cannibals
and the brutal July baked highway
from Seymour to Goree.
I have stories to sell.
Here. You can have em.
Cautionary tales and magic spells recalled
when the progressed moon left Pisces for Aries.
The security guard uniform makes me itch
because I'm a witch most at home
in my own skin and M.A.C. war paint
loose and lucid somewhere south of Dixie.
There are plenty of tricks
and you can find them all in a Lucky Charms box
circa 1976 when I made my Donny doll
kiss my Marie doll's nipple free boobs.
Staying alive without John Travolta's approval
is the trickiest trick of all.
Where do you go when Gilley's burns down
and your only dream
was to ride the bull?
You hitch a ride to the diner
where strawberry milkshakes are free
and the jukebox vomits endless
doo wop disco.
The floor lights up.
Suddenly you're Stephanie.
You knew it all along.
You shake your ass as everyone around you dies.
You add another layer of gloss to your pout.
Last call are the ugliest words.
Good thing my daddy
has his own
bar.