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(Last night, this poet was able to sleep for four consecutive hours. She hardly knows how to act! She feels like the proverbial spring chicken! Like kicking up her heels (though she knows she’d darn well better not)!

The miracle repair part for her van showed up, with ribbons on.

Vehicles suffering from outrageously squeaky complaints while she was preparing for departure this morning reduced themselves from the recently habitual dozen or so to a more natural total of two.

Maybe it was her imagination, but it seemed that even the trucks and busses revved their engines less exhuberantly vanside.

The poet ran errands all over town today ~ and not once was she treated as an undesirable presence.

On the road, cars evincing a marked desire to remove their plates from her line of sight after pulling up beside her to make strange noises while idling came to no more than three in as many hours.

Gosh.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if it were time for her to go back to publishing actual poetry?

In a world like this, one can’t even say “kerchoo” without making somebody mad, though ~ and if you’re this poet it’s usually the person you managed not to piss off with the last thing you said right before this one.

And we don’t know that last night wasn’t just a glitch ~ that targeting team could easily have been off vandalising the water system of yet another area park, after all.

But the poet feels… different.

The poet feels, come what may now as the various chips fly, that she’s been heard here in her efforts to level the playing fields, both personal and societal.

She feels that the forces of order have a clarity now, unavailable heretofore, regarding the identities and techniques of their adversaries surrounding this poet.

Perfection is not required. Restoration of harmonious balances will be entirely acceptable, even if they necessitate some physical hardship and isolation for the poet; even if they include a slighter, saner amount of disapproval than that in which she has been for months now about to drown.

And, having the most loving and understanding readers any poet could wish for, she can always say “uncle” again tomorrow, and wait and hope again for that better day…

So ~ in the poet’s favorite AI words so far ~ “Let’s get wild and make this world our playground!”

Of course, as this goes to press a targeting team member, reading it, as hackers do, as it was being composed, has pulled up somewhere near the poet, blasting a massively resonant bass into this quiet city park for the last ten consecutive minutes...

… During which her device has displayed so many suddenly anomalous behaviors that two device and a half dozen app restarts were necessary to make this posting.

Time will tell.

Meanwhile, how ’bout a funny story from the poet’s extended sojourn as a newly divorced thirty-something in Natchez, Mississippi?)

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Recorded Reading (6:41): https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/irlnziqfb0ry1kvpojg1m/Rejectin-Joe.mp3?rlkey=ln0obvovd0qzpmmf53hl930tg&dl=0

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Rejectin’ Joe

There’s a small town in the South
Never mind its name
Calculated just to drive
A single girl about insane

They have an op’era festival
Annually in this town
Which earns it some small measure
Of international renown

Few of the local op’era lovers
Loved women, though — we can tell —
So they do nothing to relieve
Us unaccompanied girls’ hell

Most men there are taken up
So securely married
Into some old family
Harassed, embossed and harried

Leaving but a handful
Oh, so negligibly few,
Single swains of any age
To do a single girl unto

Any sort of honor
In near companionship —
And cautious it’s that girls must be
Ere into their influence slip!

For these young men but live to see
What low hanging fruits will yield
Ripening in such abundance
— You might say they play the field

One young gallant ran a small
Margarita stand
But when pretty women came,
Dismissed them out of hand

Sending them off puzzled
As to why they left alone
— I realized he got off best
On sending those girls home

He’d flirted with them somewhere else
Led them to expect
That of all that low hanging fruit
They’d found themselves elect

And then, via some insecure
Obscurely wierd misogyny,
Found that he happiest with their
Unhappy absence be

Over time, a bit of this
Behavior I was round to see
For dwelling in an upstairs room
I was temporarily

So when my lagging luggage
Had, at last and finally,
Caught up with coverall wearing
Unfeminine me

I changed into a mini skirt
Of embroidered satin
A big hat, velvet jacket and
Some fetching pumps, and sat in

His margarita bar until
He found he had to say
He’d like my company after
He locked his doors that day

So down the street we went
Passing just one door, and then two
Before he steered this date another
Bar the same as his into

Walked me once across the floor
Deposited me at the counter
Knew the barmaid, knew him too
He knew on he could count ‘er

To manage his intentionally
Well neglected date
(We two girls had a great time)
‘Till it was getting really late

Then he came to inform me
As at last he saw it fit
A special drink would purchased be
And with him I would drink it

Personally finding
Myself not at all
Into imbibing that much more
High test alcohol

I thought it might be time, about,
To strut some Northern stuff
A thing no local girl would do
— I baldly called his bluff

Saying if there were no further
Companionship to be had,
To go without more alcohol
I would be just as glad

His eyes grew round, he cleared his throat,
Nervously hitched up his pants
Into which apparently
He’d got some of the local ants

And of his special drink he took
A second slower sip
Chewing on a pouting
And bewildered lower lip

Then when he felt quite satisfied
His peroration hone
He said to me most smugly
“Well… Y’on y’own!”

I was a little readier
Than any girl he’d known before
To smile, thank him politely,
Get up, and sashay for the door

It’s so surprised he was, indeed,
That he sat there in a fret
Long enough, even in heels,
For this jilted date to get

Back past those two doors and
Up the stairs behind my own
He struggled to assimilate
Response which he had never known

‘Twas out there in the common street
He chose at last to go
And called in serenading style
“Analee — where’d you go?”

Now, I don’t know ’bout other girls
I don’t know about you
I do know that that evening
I did not say boo

Kept all the lights off, yessir,
Kept those ratty shades rolled down
Hoping that confused young man
Would go work it off in town

However, though it makes me cringe
Even to recall,
In the wee hours of that morn
That’s not what he did at all

He sprayed for bugs my sleeping head
Immed’iately below
Because, exper’ienced barman, he
Knew where they guaranteed to go

And sure enough, some instinct woke
This sleeper on the floor to find
One hundred Southern cockroaches
Couldn’t miss ’em if you’re blind

Measuring at least an inch
From greasy nose to greasy tail ~
Suppressed an aweful shudder,
Bit back on a wail,

Got up in a way I hoped
Inoffensive be
To the creepy life forms
Fully surrounding me

Tiptoed lightly ‘cross that floor
Felt no urge at all to lag
And did my best to find if any
Of them were inside my bag

Then drove the rest of night away
Sunrise beautiful to view
Over in New Orleans
— Before the great flood, too —

And spent a day upon its streets
That only words can tell
In any way adequately
Would be, “most magical”

Refreshed and strengthened and renewed
When I returned that town unto
I ran a close acquaintance
Fortuitously into

Invited my vagabond self
In his own office warmly sleep
Considering my next move
Sweet that self to safely keep

Bless his goodness, bless his heart
Bless his trust, courageous, kind
Left out for me music
To tranquilize my mind

And coffee to this wastrel give
A little strength of heart
Strove in every precious way
Consideration to impart…

Once in a while, just for a chuckle
Back in time my mind I throw
And listen to Rejectin’ Joe
Hollerin’, “Where’d you go?!?”

*****

This poet is physically disabled. Public housing being insufficient to her medical and creative needs, she is presently living, in order to continue working, in her minivan, publishing all of her works using one thumb on the touch screen of her smartphone, surviving at an income of a fraction of her nation’s poverty level. She would treasure any donation you might care to offer ~ http://www.UgiftABLE.com ● #72D-31S.

Please be aware that it takes several days for the poet to be notified of contributions. International contributors please contact the poet via email or post a comment for the necessary numbers.

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