Mood: Over it
Drinking: Diet Coke with a dash of that magical vanilla
Pink Strip
Blame it on the genes.
They’ve betrayed you.
Curvaceous Helix Traitors.
Deoxyribonucleic Renegades.
And if you think proteins and
sugar phosphates
can’t have an
ulterior motive, a
sinister agenda, the
last laugh, you
have not done your homework.
It’s a biochemical mutiny,
and you’re walking the plank.
Blame it on the boy, if you want.
He double-crossed you, too.
Malefic Civilian Informer.
Treacherous Morrissey Fanboy.
You should know by now
that you can’t trust a man
with magnets for eyes. He
carves your initials
into his arm
just to infiltrate the psych ward
to find you. It’s so bloody, it’s almost
romantic. But then he doesn’t just
push your buttons, he
threads a needle and sews them
right into your skin. He’s a card
carrying member of Nicole’s
Black Cotton Mafia and you
are his heroin moll.
It’s a Dark Boy conspiracy
and you need witness protection.
Blame it on Jesus. Everyone does.
Isn’t silence a breach of good faith?
Deficient Deity.
Inadequate Savior.
Just when you’re ready to seek
and to find, that’s when
he goes into hiding.
He goes into stealth mode,
radio silent.
He goes incognito.
He goes away.
(It’s almost like he wants you
to beg for it.)
So you do.
You get down on your knees
in the bedraggled back bathroom
of Andy’s Chinese.
You assume the position
and you say “Our Father,
pretty please.”
Then you wait for heaven
to crack wide open
and spit out an angel
but you’d settle for something
smaller and less brilliant.
You’d settle for an answer.
But all you see is the ceiling
the white paint falling in flakes
to reveal a yellow sheen
circa 1973
hidden underneath.
You start to think
the colors in this room
have formed an alliance against you.
White is never as innocent as it
first appears. There’s always a secret
seeping through like a yellow disease.
And this pink in your hand,
so nauseating
so Pepto Bismol
so far from pretty.
You never did like the pastels.
So you’re left with the pink strip
and the absolute absence of
divine intervention.
Jesus
is busy.
Boy is oblivious.
And your genes, well,
they’re just too dangerous.
So you blame it on yourself, finally.
You make such a good villain.
And villains don’t make good mothers.
(The defects are hereditary.)
-Lo, who knows that not all poems can be taken at face value and not all Morrissey fanboys are treacherous.
LaDonnaWitmer 