sieve memory sieve, back on a blank page with my
futile good girl intentions
they rape only the beautiful ones with teeny tiny waists, big, silicone breasts, and an eye for Donna Karan, I know because I am not
starry eyed models line up single file, Malibu Barbie and Ken dolls in whatever fashion whores the Maker
I am gone, acceptance speech, erased
I hate the make-up, the foul stench of Nair and Net, your bleeding vaginal yeast a patent on clones, bondage foreign snuff films from my mother or our babysitter, one and the same
on the last page, I cry for a boy who doesn’t exist
I watch them watch his kite sail in the air above “a sunny day in April of 1974,” when my fiction first began. It was beautiful and poignant and so very Hollywood, movie-ready after the money men and their hired guns put the finishing touches on the happy ending with a liberal slant. Their media masks back in place.
Everything is a lie.