Escape from sadness

in every breath you take–

bouquet of balloons.

I awoke to find

I was Holly Golightly–

Kafka’s dream, debugged.

Perishable pink,

sound of music in flowers–

Grace, noted, dates well.

Another Red Dawn

or Day of the Living Dead?

Shit, old scripts die hard.

Runaway model

on Heaven’s 7th catwalk–

Go to tell, PETA.

To clearly separate fiction from fact:

Little Red ran,

not in terror, but to grab an ax

from the back of her well-stocked shed–

the Wolf, as you can plainly see,

never stood a chance

against Little Red’s

darker twin, Wrath,

who hell hath claims

as the mother of invention.

In a ballroom gown,

the suicide was delayed–

Beauty, will you stay?

You cannot have her,

many women in one cloak–

split down the middle?

With a diarist’s intimacy and candor,

Anais composed her dawnrise text to Henry

and then hit SEND,

grateful for the fast-flying

expedient breath

of a cellular technology

that had yet to be invented.

She, the Menken,

Byronic in flame

and force, mastered

the art of social media

long before technology caught up,

selling the illusion

of a man/

woman

bound naked to a horse;

she, the salacious Mazeppa,

incited a modern storm,

long before the 20th century caught up.

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