I think I may need to unfriend my country
Or begin cussing online
Maybe hurl my bras off a cliff, toss the razor
And just live in the nude on this mountaintop
I may need to slice a watermelon and bite into that sweet flesh
Spit seeds to copperheads below
And cool off with a garden hose
Get on with gettin on
Perhaps I should lose my mind once a week, or pray, or sing gospel in the car
One of those is not the same as the other
What’s your title now?
- All-star spackler and panicker
- Floor sweeping evangelist
- Wall painting whistler
- Good eater
- Tree gazer
- Random thought generator
- Turtle observer, and
- Doom scroller
Another friend told me her mental health is in the toilet these days
And yet another is without her motorcycle gang to grieve the Covid death of one of their members, blood spilling from Trump’s tiny hands
I think I may need to follow in my parent’s footsteps and watch West Wing over and over until this madness passes
They are on round 3
Better than narcotics or getting infected by demon semen
Or, maybe I should collect crickets and wasps – dry or deep fry – pop em in my mouth – because wouldn’t I have part of this old mountain inside me?
There is a time for stillness (before sunrise) and a time for movement (after coffee) – just look at John Lewis and all his Good Trouble
He’d probably say, Joanna, there ain’t no time to shop for another country – work with what ya got
Shall we curl up inside a rock shelter near this bluff
Sleep for a season below the ancient art and above the beauty berry?
Maybe an armadillo will knock you awake as he plays and rolls on his back
Maybe that would give us the bone-rattling laughter we need
Wouldn’t it be wonderful, a true surprise, if Trump gained half the intelligence of a slug I see on my windowpane?
What unexpected growth, we’d all say