Brillo Pads & Body Casts Ironically itís what was missing from the waste of paste of Fate mistaking pride and other power tools for ultra-violet fortitude regarding all the bump and grind of bones that grew in some spots not in all of them like grass forgotten by a hose. This is what was body-casting. Mattresses were Brillo Pads. The plate of femininity defined by misdemeanors, guarded tears, that never could decide if it was really safe to fall. Cops of eyes would pull her over. Then begin the cruel frisking. Whisking all the eggs of mind and dumping them in burning skillets. He was hot pads by the stove. Made her feel as though her bones were not just dented cans to place behind the rows of perfect ones. Dichotomies of absent parts are not the substance of the dawn. The traffic court of weighing in. Candorís gavel on her thumbs. The aftertaste of eyes is hard. Taking off the scabs of heart was learning lush is in the head. That in the game of growing faith, a pair of satin, satin thighs is not the only, only card.
Janet I. Buck's Questions:
Is the topsy-turvy combination of traditional form and rhetoric with
experimentation and word-play accessible to the reader or is merely confusing?