A Little Girl Alice 1. This thing I’ve birthed: Alice. A little girl in red using vanilla to get her point across. Somewhere South of here a man is stewing stew in a black stovepipe hat. Eccentric means white cactus hair and two-by-four smiles. Alice writes vanilla, vanilla, until the steeple bell begins to agree. Alice drops vanilla in the stovepipe hat (which was black) I wonder, ‘why hats? and what’s the steeple bell ask?’ Rundown, I tell Alice, “Rest your head and come to bed.” To which she simply replies, vanilla.
2. Sometimes I wonder, was I right to let her go. Alice went to see the mushroom. The mothers keep their children home. The swings are empty. The slides are empty. The sandbox is full castles. She builds the castles because without something to tear down, life isn’t motivated. She sings, “I just want to see it change.’ The castles surround the mushroom. The mushroom is blue and solid. She wants to change the mushroom. I tell her no. I have to be responsible. What I’ve done I can’t repair. I have changed the world. I asked the girl, ‘where, under the stars have you broken my castles?’ To which she simply replies, ‘The mushroom.’
3. Alice kneels under the boom of a black spotted mushroom. Growing larger Feeling smaller ‘How have you come into this world little girl? Understand you’re blond and beautiful and hopeless.’ She says, ‘sometimes there isn’t enough space in that sky. Sometimes the clouds are crowded.’ I don’t know what that means, but I’m not the sky to argue. This is a blond girl ready to smile. She likes to see us crowded. I am very quick of temper. Sometimes I may get mad. Her eyes are wide. That sky - her sky (I don’t know if I can call it mine) is crowded. I wonder what more sky could look like.
4. Angry Alice watching vigorously, a red dotted mushroom. Understand that I took those bullets and filled your heart. Alice bleeding on the kitchen floor. I put the chair over your face. Sitting nuclear under mushroom, My face: red dotted blood. It’s easier with the chair there covering. Soft Alice Lying still. Not moving. Keeping quiet. Being pleasant. Something’s different Alice… Something I don’t know the name of: lacking motivation, inspiration, an art that lost its ink. Something’s gone, but its not just the color of your face. Its not just the sensation of your open mouth. Its not the anger in your eyes. It’s a image (missing) before the bullets of my gun.
Poem I wrote