the other blue fairy
Friday, and tired to the bone,
I order a lyft to take me home,
a ride I share with a blue fairy.
She’s sans wings, and blessed with
turquoise hair and matching nails.
Her blue jean jacket is embroidered
with punk rock butterflies.
She’s loudly yacks into her iphone.
Her voice bounces off my ears
and around the cramped backseat
we both share. I glance down and see
an ugly history carved into her legs,
a thick network of old ropey scars
that form a crude cross-hatch pattern
across the tops of her thighs.
In the smooth spaces between
are a series of tattoos; a heart pierced
with three sharp swords, a black cat
who slumbers in the hollow
of her left thigh, and a three quarter
portrait of the Lady of Guadalupe,
whose tears water a bouquet of roses
clutched to her breast. My sympathy rises
for this earthbound sprite, but now
she’s shares, with whoever’s on
the other end of the line, a list of
what she’s recently accomplished.
Rent and bills are paid in full.
Enrollment for college is completed.
She wants to take a spring trip to Mexico.
Her voice lightens, and suddenly,
I feel a rush of relief.
She’s fought her way to a life
once never thought possible.
dame of the west’s diy plans
This morning, you gave me everything
but the final ingredient for success.
When I asked why, you confess
you’ve never actually used this recipe,
and the last component is something
you’ve never been able to acquire.
You mumble a tearful apology,
and scurry back to the kitchen,
your shoulders collapsed in defeat.
I then went to visit my neighbor,
a former soldier turned welder
of broken hearts, to ask his help
in mending the link between
my soul and intellect. He refused,
and stated no such connection
exists, even as he held the jagged
ends of the chain in both hands.
Annoyed, I walk home and kick
imaginary cans along the way.
Failure weighs heavy on my back
like a stubborn child who
won’t let the piggyback ride end.
I know, in my heart, the only one
who can help me is me, though it will
involve binge watching a lot of
how-to videos, bribing a few daemons,
and leaving my phone turned off,
so as not to get distracted
by my best friend – self-sabotage.
The 1002nd Arabian Night
There’s only so many ways
to tell the same story
before the Sultan nods off
or starts checking eMecca
for the newest virgins on the block.
There’s only so many nights
a storyteller can stand
before she gags from
the foul stench of
the Sultan’s hummus farts
and 12 o’clock shadow
that’s not been attended to
for more than a fortnight.
Love is the ability to listen
to the same story over
and over and over again…
until the bile and boredom
no longer burn a hole
in your bowels.
If the one you love
is still by your side
after “happily ever after”
has become an epithet,
you can both move into
the comfortable twilight
of companionship –
and hope you’ll die first.