by Manny Grimaldi
Skip brick.
Build a castle with a lollapalooza
of naked-floppy-neoprene Barbie heads
singed down to burnt plastic ends,
the stench an unsolved variable in an algebraic equation. The girl you are plays in taxi cabs in Cherokee Park.
Once,
I go beyond the block without permission while scared to touch the family of blue porcelain figurines in the parlor. I beg my mother for Battle-Armor He-Man to fit with children that have no care for me.
I need no appliqués, my swing es tropical. Period.
Pero, we are the same today.
We break rules in persimmon light—
like once upon a time you pin me to the ground to punch me, that one time—you take, lift my cloud, kiss me like a fool, your sister smashes down my brow.
That girl loves the world and throws rice at Rocky Horror.
Pegasus 