| POETRY |
| SECRETS OF A MANIC QUEEN I learned to play hearts in the psych ward But only after I suffered the initiation My student nurse crispy whites required A bald schizophrenic tagged me correctly as new meat Accused me of wanting to castrate him since birth Then threw a ceramic ash tray across the room Skipping it across the black and white checked floor like he was playing hopscotch The spinning disc landed beside a woman exhibiting tardive dyskinesia who was licking her face She stopped for a moment startled then gradually melted into a series of tics I responded to the accusation with a hearty "I do not!" "I've seen enough balls this month to last a lifetime!" (just completed my rotation in urology, thank you very much) The bald one satisfied slumped away caressing his jewels and demanding a smoke. A manic depressive to my left beamed and expansively shared with me That he was the queen of England and taught me to play hearts by Sheryl McCurdy |
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| RED WINE AND CRUMPLED POEMS I'm just sitting here typing drinking red wine and thinking my poetry has never sounded better wondering why I never wrote inebriated before and I pour myself another and open the Lays potato chips (how elegant) and continue on my pen of discovery can visions of loveliness exude from this pile of letters I see strewn across the wobbly page of white in front of me or will this scrap in the morning light be another crumpled sheet lying at my feet waiting to be swept out of sight by me muttering to myself "Can't you people pick up after yourself!" "Good Grief!" by Sheryl McCurdy |
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| MIDI: RED RED WINE |
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