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Always Messing with them Boys
Jessica Helen Lopez      
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Billiefs Blues Are Mine

My gardenia scented getaway
suicide not for fame
dulling color fades today

Ifm no Sylvia Plath mama,
sexy Anne Sexton, tragic Ophelia
wonft go out mad martyr style
but sometimes the slide of
silky fingers collide with my sensibilities
sing a song of the lovely siren
that is the Lady

The smoky sad jazz
of Billie beckons me
blue deep, onyx sea
palette watery grave,
my gardenia-scented getaway

The greasy trombone
melodic boom of bass
guitar, light fingers
play piano keys,
tap in Morse code
the misery
through music,
honey butter songstress,
the bleeding heart
of Billiefs mantra
my gardenia-scented homegirl

Sheets cover the windows
keeps the room cool and dark
when La Catrina speaks

bleached bone and bourgeois,

her skeletal thin-skinned
hand soothes me.
she hums death dreams,
lulls me to sleep,
smooth jazz reprieve

Silky fingers of subjugation
offer rest from the rage
that burns the heart, chatters
away my brain, thumps
my sleep out from
its groove, the
xylophone of my rib cage,
cradle to the downcast heart,
Silly moon.

So many odes
to that old girl
have they made,
Ms. Holiday, a goodmorning
to heartache,
in her solitude going bad,
singing away
like no one can,
my sickness of sadness

You Frida lady,
Lady Lazarus,
Supernova woman
posturing pain
whispering,

muerto
muerto
muero

Llorona leave me be
prayers allow me to
channel la chola loca,
putita bruja
high hair,
devil-may-care
barrio bitch.

Something is passing
through these veins again
haunting my heart.
hopelessly hypnotic
a Homeric epic, needing release
heroin overdose all dressed
up and nowhere to go
needling straight to
the cardiac arrest,
slipping the noose around
the songbirdfs neck,
snap shut the nightingale
who will sing less and
less and less

knowing this day will come again,
and I will do as Dylan says and
Rage, rage, rage against the
dying of the light

And only if,
how I wish,
wonder if,
his villanelle
encompasses
the ladies too

and not just
the deaths of
fathers and old men

Tomorrow is a Zach de la Rocha day,
Charles Bukowski, Diane Wakowski,
A pinche puta Cisneros day.

Tomorrow will be
walk on Washington,
bulldog-battle along the border,
a fight for the brown

but today I sit
in the lovely gray,
the cleansing rain,
of Lady Day

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