BLUE COLLAR HOLIDAY
Blue Collar Holiday And if I feel like a woman looming over Lautrec with water weight & panties and murderous fuschia underfoot those dying balloons on Job's Lane sag around like saline breast implants and pineal sunbeams sneak through my hair dirty but focused as screwy detectives or Plexiglas I go to pieces in my adolescent pine amid blackheads, seltzer, a cold front falling into a decline like ladies on the prairies used to in the klieg-lit house with the deodorant cakes in the upstairs johns and the foam-core ass on "Bad Secretary" in the living room and the foam-core bird paintings in the klieg-lit kitchen warm & endangered as an Orca whale float, pollen & Coronas, in the foggy autumn and the thin nude branches all snow-furred like an X-ray of infant bronchitis. Wrist-slitting stuff. My honey chapstick stinks of piss & menstrual sharkfear but like the alpha male in Brownie troops ankled in mud I sit tight, coping, & spit. The Mormons taught me to have fortitude when I am in the right & right now I stand stalwart as lung-colored support hose in a French sex & death-er for readers under twelve My Indian name is "Little Hard-Core" I yank on a blue collar since we have so many blue-collar holidays salute myself for alpinism -- just being high really & degrees of cousinage even misty like this.