Doing the Needful
Poetry
I really hate the
three of swords.
Tired of the emperor
and his naked garbage.
I am the empress? Shit.
The feral kitten is
not a placeholder.
He has a name.
Even the six of
cups feels good.
Heavy arcana, too.
The friggin world,
and 3-D glasses for the eclipse.
Karmic-torn divine.
A choice made of
brilliant ace ashes, but
need to divert the
fake shine of the lying chariot.
I don’t have a driver’s
permit, but I need to
tell the clairvoyant
about my time travel
visit to my crazy parents
in their blue carpet kitchen.
God, I would
love to see them alive.
The state-of-the-art
green dishwasher they
had, and we children gathered
to witness their fight,
in the house on Kent Avenue.
Appliances were supposed
to make life easier.
“Not in the cards today,”
says the insurance business communication
therapist. The telephone wife
is definitely off the hook,
no sense to be made.
