Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

Manic Monday

What a Monday, exposing me, the wilted one with petals falling out! To live through this surge-after-surge day, one needs a conquistador’s sword and mapmaking abilities. This should be the twenty-four hours that never existed or a day with nothing brutish, nothing with a jagged rhythm, nothing that makes me run on jet fuel, want to harpoon a whale, or bare my scorpion stinger. On this hectic day, I’m everywhere I have known well, but that everywhere is somewhere I’ve never been to, and I am wrapped in awkward drafts, hurrying, timorous and meek. Contradictory to the alleged notion, the meek inherit nothing, but the rushed muddle up everything, and how I undulate in my swirling, creased outfits--with hair askew and expletives escaping from my animated lips--does not necessarily point to a kinky Aphrodite revealing herself. And the point of my calefaction is, now, at the end hours, I rather need a gift, a gift of the infinite as a prize for my plight, empowering me to gather words without thorns.


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Prompt: a blue Monday or a manic Monday