Via the Migration

Julie pouts and her lip makes a shadow
She’s the fork in her very own road
Sit up! The mountains explode!
Nothing hurts like the process of letting go.  

Pretty sitting won’t repair anything in your head
And who could blame you if the lot of them left you for dead?
(“Or maimed,” your counselor said) 

Something borrowed, something blue and black – you decide
Whispered nothing sweet and pleasured himself with your hide
Wake up! A chromosome lie!  

Julie looks to her television for advice
“They’d show up just to pelt me with rice”
Justice by comic device  

“This is it, this is it” you whisper to your cat
Change is more, though, than animist fiat
Go west, get lean, or get fat.  

Cpoyright 2002 John Brocato (10/14/02)