well, there is a house in new orleans they call the rising sun. and it's been the ruin of many a poor girl. and god, i know i'm one.

so...this sums up where i am at the moment i suppose. i'm loving all my writings at the moment, so i'm embracing this feeling as long as it lasts and sharing my work while i have confidence in its quality.

my confabulation:

someone once bluntly informed me
as i lounged on the cafe's loveseat
that your polo shirts
would never vibe with my tatterdemalion style.

i feel in a sense demented
every time i am caught in a vain wish.

i lust after your button up shirts
like the paparazzi after britney.

if you would only slide down
those ray-bans for a twinkle and behold...


someone once assured me
that vegas mailmen never stray
for they know elvis is just around the corner
in a lime green sanctuary.

it doesn't pose concern that your flavor
will dissolve as quickly as a pack of chiclets.

i am now a child, wearied
from having to color inside the lines for too long an eternity.

tramp on over in your boat shoes.
walk all over me until i'm subdued with seasickness.


someone once politely advised me
as i subtly elided the babbled chaos
that your polo shirts
would never vibe with my tatterdemalion style.