Fierce Fictional Fraternal Fallout
That dormant feeling of insecurity arose,
when travel journal got thrust adjacent
to my tattered (holey tattooed) clothes
while I knew with crossed eyes
aroused anger from peaceful doze
my younger sister felt about her
globe trotting exploits, an over expose
jour ever since voyaging out on her own
after graduating top of her class
where mine hatred glows
indirectly snidely sneering
at ma dough less brother hoboes
(a 1979 Methacton High School alumni),
unanimously chosen valedictorian
dressed in Calvin Klein
Harris tweed, couture
and silk panty hose
like me prolonging, promoting
on par with quasi staff sergeant, who knows
artful disciplinarian gingerly launching rules,
asper formerly commanding G.I. Joes
and pronouncing, predilection
exhaling natural highs no lows
traveling solo, with surviving Wilburys,
or just mows
zing nonchalantly
(though a foreigner) with swarthy skin color
easily camouflaging as civilian
all points on the compass,
where minute needle doth nose
upon returning home (being honorably feted
at once glorious estate of Glen Elm,
where she did propose
to the Lord Taylor (swiftly), which location
situated at 324 Level Road, Collegeville,
Pennsylvania 19426),
thence a great huzzah a rose
an immediate nauseousness welled
within from me head tummy smelly toes
I did not want to here, or see any details,
which would accentuate personal woes
popping, snapping, and smarting,
and slapping skin raw tib bits,
ache'n to yanked strings
of mama's heirloom yo-yos!
Poet Script:
trials and tribulations,
visited upon head of young
concocted ("FAKE") gusty and gutsy
kid sister enterprising ingenue,
christened easy on the tongue
Sharodd (not her real name),
to top off talents sung
like a professional opera singer, which rung
a shiver along small hairs of spine did tingle
heard all the way to Lake Woebegone
where bachelor farmers did mingle
every Christmas, a decreasing
number donned Kris Kringle
hit with blitzkrieg of yawping brats
hoof pranced to bell weather jingle!
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