Sunday, February 25, 2018

cholesterol coping

I whip my hair
(Thank you, God, I washed it today)
back as I sally forth—small tropical storm
emerging from the
au bon pain 
avec un tempérament furieux.

I am SuperBitch,™
drunk on anger,
intoxicated absolutely
at one convenient scapegoat.
Call me René Girard I dare you.

The man sporting a mimetic beard
writes on a yellow legal pad—
To mock my pain!
the shadow side of me screams.

I burn his placid and innocent
face writing earnestly in
a morally neutral writing medium.
with the bile shooting out of my eyes,
combusted dust of Kuiper belt ad extra
hitting earth.
This seminar room's an atmosphere
and I'm catching fire on re-entry.

Anger clogs my arteries like cholesterol
accumulated from eating
those damn teddy grahams we
left in my room
after the party.
Choking on the cosmic Kuiper dust
material rising with my gorge,
I sulk through the late afternoon
refusing to summon mental
strength to even try to conjugate Ohhibbo
and clandestinely consult my notes.

I pound out my anger-cramped
muscles stiff with adrenaline
on the literal punching bag.
Thank you for the boxing lessons.
I should have known they were
the parachute handed to me by
the stewardess as I board the plane.
"Here's a coping mechanism for our inevitable crash.
Aisle seats are open in the back."

The flow of sweat makes it possible again to think,
I mentally compose an angry poem
all through the psalmist's plea,
which I do not heed,
My words are flowing like the swollen
river swallowing this city's parks and streets,
until they hit the dam:
Forgive and you will be forgiven.
a deluged street sign,
handhold to cling to

For the measure with which you measure
will in return be measured out to you.
I measure out some measly misery,
flavored with rage,
saturated with sour pests
crawling through bitter bread.

I bring that to the alter.
Give and gifts will be given to you;
I hold out my hands,
packed together,
shaken down,
overflowing with my own
angry pain.
a good measure, packed together, shaken down, and overflowing,
will be poured into your lap.
In a moment,
it is exchanged
for the prettiest sliver of pure white grain
you've ever seen,
Incarnate peace come to mend
my angry tongue and
ebb the angry flood coursing through my heart
rests in my hand like an angel
or a God, more like.

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