pose

Strike it and light it up. Something melodramatic to be said under foggy floor lights of blues and purples. Nighttime colors with spirits dressed in black. You cannot see their faces. A dancer runs upstage, lit by spotlight. It follows. She looks like a luminescent goth saint. Her face, albino white with clown makeup but it’s not funny. She strikes a pose, her face the fulcrum of the obtuse angle she makes with her arms. The music pauses as she looks upward, skyward, heavenword. Heaven bound and glorybe. With her eyes slowly closing, her lilac eyeshadow shows itself like a hidden trapdoor of a secret made to bear and share with you. The runway is a stage is a runway is a walk way is a highway is the milky way is broadway. Some fixed point for free or with no expenses paid, that we gaze at and/or hope to stride down someday. To strike our pose for our 15 seconds of fame. Rejuvenated Andy Warhol on speed and acid, never dead or dying. Cryogenic Walt Disney meets the Futurama Richard Nixon jarred head. If he was still around he’d have so much to say. Warhol and Postman engaged in debate. Now, that’s a holodeck program I would watch. Little drools of fantasy eek out of my brain and run down the sides of my face like Rudy Giuliani’s hair dye. Makes me think of the Oil of Violets Danny Devito uses in Matilda. Remember when she switches its contents with bleach? Such a classic movie. Verbatim remembered dialogue. Ballerina slippers tied to a bunny rabbit’s feet. That was definitely some cartoon character I remember in either decoration of illustrated book I remember reading as a kid. I cannot place her though. I’m not quite sure where she came from. Rinsed mouthwash inside out to spit in the sink and run the water to wash it down. I glance in the mirror with teeth bared and I pose. It feels good and fresh and clean. Shotgun wedding in a cardboard church. I remember the friends whose families could afford small playhouses in the yard. How new and fresh they felt. How it felt so nice to fit inside. New Jersey backyard spring and summer. A chocolate labrador.

Author: Roe

30. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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