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Los Angeles, California
I am 47 and thriving in Southern California. One day at a time.
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Sunday, February 19, 2012

animal farm

here piggy, piggy, piggy...

when a pig is roasted on a spit, polynesian style, it turns slowly, glistening in the tropical sun. on an elaborate rotisserie it twirls, like an aging ballerina, agonizingly slow. the spectacle, flame-licked from below, shadowdances upon its crusty skin, screams forever silenced; maraschino-topped with a pink lady crunch and a burgeoning laie.

this little piggy went to market...
this little piggy stayed home...
this little piggy liked roast beef...
this little piggy had none...
and this little piggy went, "NOOOOOOOOOOO!"...all the way home.

wee piglets. so dear, so darling, so dinner. so irresistibly raw in their pretty in pink, puppy stage. their squealing vocal gymnastics drowning out our hypocritical ooh's and ahh's...

[blt, anyone?]

throwing an e, t, on the end, infantilizes the objects of our affection.

piglet is to pig as petting zoo is to pork chops.

but throwing an e, t, t, AND e on the end, breeds the most defiant, baby dane south of the 49th parallel, the loner wolf of the brat pack, and devout follower of tantrum buddhism.

henriette is to hen as hen is to pig.

so heavy with shameful bloat and bloated shame, she hauls ass and hollow assets with defeated grunts and snorts.

[i think, therefore i itch.]

god. let me scratch that itch.

splayed in the mud, she grinds her filthy past into a muddied, shallow grave. soothing squalor.

but, pigs cleanse in mud. pigs are intelligent creatures.

and as clear as mud, hen is not. can she scald the blistering history of her subversive soaks...

xanax, jacuzzi and wine...

[a tale of two addicts. one pig in a casket. one pig in a blanket.]

tenting herself from a world of animals, cannibals, life.

she's a pig who can't fly.

a wannabe hen again.


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