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Poem
The Story: 

ragged faded 
lady hoarder, 
dumpster-diving 
diva boarder, 
dancin' to the tune 
of her Dandelion Wine. 

milky-eyed maiden, 
peddles paper posies, 
masticating carnivore, 
toothless, useless whore. 
not on her best night! 
not anymore! 

acclimated alleyways, 
rodents without fear, 
muddle-minded Faustian , 
soul redeeming martyr - 
thirty-seventh year. 

The Memories: 

broken boned beauty 
forged in her mind, 
conscientious duty 
lost to time. 

could have been 
a skater, 
rockefeller rink, 
sooner came later, 
locked and loaded link. 

pride of Arizona, 
class of sixty-one, 
a devotee of luna, 
loves her remy rum. 

many bitter winters, 
bitter winter winds, 
sliced her like a knife slice, 
bled her bone thin. 

The Story: 

gave away her gravity, 
east L.A. 
weighted down reality 
roles she plays. 

saddle-strapped sad hag 
gone insane, 
never gonna' lose 
'cause she's never in the game. 

always aware where the 
light lays low to the ground 
livin' in a clap-trap 
jingle-jangle town. 
runs for the shade 
when the sun goes down; 
safety in crazy, 
crazy shades and shadow 
hides her braided hair 
and her Royal golden crown. 

salts of lithium 
took away her name; 
doesn't even know 
who the hell to blame. 

wants to be codified, 
once and for all, 
as prophets once prophesied - 
another Jackie O. 
with her hag-bag shop rags 
ready to go. 

time is always lazy for a lady goin' crazy!! 
midnight, brain-drain, middle of the boulevard, 
ragged lady bag-hag screamin' out her rage. 

The Lady Speaks: 

HEY YOU! 
up there with your pixilated palindromes, 
sippin' fresh-dipped sewer juice 
and french champagne - you blue-blooded, high-borns, 
listen to the tale that I wail at you. 

i'm a sack-cloth, busted, shackled crusted scab, 
gonococcal wet-brain - slippin' on the ledge 
of pain on pain, while livin' on the edge 
in the whorin' pourin' rain. God died, I cried, 
now i'm lookin' for some gain. 

leave your flush plush penthouse high-flying life; 
see your bleeding sister, see your bleeding wife. 
that's right, once a wife, mother to your kids. 
your kids are gettin' shifty, siftin' on the street; 
private school, brittle-veined, maggot-tagged gods, 
waitin' for the reaper with the universal odds. 

i'm brain-drained, insane, dissipated plain, 
a bucket full of truth even Jesus wouldn't claim! 
so crucify your comfort, your gentrified name, 
then bring it to the street, bitch, let me see your shame.
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