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PURCHASE THE DIGITAL COLLECTION (2013)
Janis Lyn Joplin
B. 1.19.1943 Port Arthur, Texas / D. 10.4.1970 Los Angeles
I am such a stupid hippie.
It’s just awful
Every time I think I’m stepping up the evolutionary ladder, its rungs will suddenly change substance and dissolve
like semaphores in smoke
or what’s in those lab photos of chromosomes
and I fall into a heap of love beads, which trail me from the room
like Marley’s chains
or Gypsy Rose Lee’s towel.
I am such a junk shop.
It’s so cluttered
Every time I almost think of something new, all the old merchandise starts to crowd and push forward
like orphans at a gate
or bank ads in Times Square
and I select a fistful of familiar love beads with which to re-accessorize myself
like they were James Brown’s ermined crown
or Ophelia’s flowers.
How gullible I am!
It’s always the same
If you tell me someone planned to lift the Pentagon with mind control, I will think, “What happened?”—every time
like a note on an electric piano
or war in Afghanistan
and I will seem to see a band of turquoise love bead blue appear between the lawn and stone
like Rothko’s ghost
or Thisbë’s wall.
What a needless non-conformist!
It’s so common
With my freedom, I like to just sit around at home concocting every unlikely scenario that time allows
like in a child’s excuses
or The Pit and the Pendulum
and I like to follow that up by wearing out convenient words, of which beads and love are two
like when letters get low in the Scrabble bag
or sand versus rock.
I am such a stubborn hippie.
Everywhere I take the time to look around, another approach to joy becomes apparent
like flags in a graveyard
or thoughts of infinity
and I stand there beading strings of ways to share it
like wow man
Consolation Site: Hotel Sabine
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