Yesterday I met
the medicine man.
His sunshine fruit tablets
lit my hope like a fireball,
train windows stained glass
by his vitamin light.
He said my aura was green.

I hate east. At least riding west
the new year comes over and over.
John says we’re actors.
This Is All There Is.
The chinchilla coat, Sadie
yes, with real lace!

Day 8, Baked Alaska for supper.
Would I a baby
had I stayed Mildred Plotka?
Would I a rascally nipple?
Would I throw her to Dickens
let her be raised
by a jeweled foster grandma
cut angels from silk?

Last night almost ate
a full box of cookies
tossed the rest out the window, Indianapolis.
Should have saved them for gypsies
not hoboes.
I was human once
I read Lawrence.
“Pale love lost in a snow of fear”
I cheat now, getting paid
to read scripts. It’s cannibalistic
telling the men their novels are lovely
though he did write I was shapely
with Saturn eyes.
“My little
white Madonna,” John says
“don’t try to put it inside.”
Nothing important.
The garland’s in my name.
Though I ask how much steam
one can burn mourning.