Jeni Olin

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.