I have the poem tucked away here and there, and it has been featured in both my published works and on blogs published and then hit delete upon. I have decided not to release the poem at this time; it was three triangles literally.
Bob Jones died in 2014 tomorrow. I bought a dog in around January of that year for my birthday and named him Valentine. The dog is now owned by me through my seventh child. Val and I are still very much in love with each other yet he loves his owner, my grandmother so to speak, as well.
I’m just kidding. You don’t find a woman who up and writes a three triangle poem only to find out Bob Jones of Bob Jones Ministries died that day, too, and not be kidding anymore. People are so something around me. I’m tired.
John Paul died a little over a year later. Yes yes he and I know his last name is Jackson, my daughter is named after his mother, and his father has the name Robert like my father and grandfather have, you know…the grandfather that died dead in a street like my brother did twice. (Revelation 11 and 22 because John Paul died of plagues he carried because he was so viciously betrayed by everyone like I am but I have not been stricken, at least I have not been stricken yet). I have told Curtis that I will sign a DNR soon. I don’t want to drive up costs if I get cancer. I’m going to be like my Beaty women relatives. They never tell anyone. They enjoy the rest of their lives and perhaps take a little chemo, and then they die quietly.
Am I philosophical enough for you? Do you mind how I’m talking about dying? If you do mind how I’m talking about dying go stuff it up your ass. You have no idea what it is like to have the kind of testimony I have. Moving ON ALREADY even though I’ve got so much betrayal staring me in the face still.
Here is a dude I don’t know. But I know he is real and not some farce on Twitter. He talks about Monopoly in the political tweet below. I had a dream. That was back in like 2013 or even earlier where John Paul was in my front doorway and he looked over to my parents’ house (it is STILL my parents’ house no matter the pieces of paper my mom signed ya’ll so get over yourselves).
I knew Curtis and Dad were in Dad’s living room watching football, and I gather John Paul would have rather gone over there but he came into my living room anyway and I was sitting on the couch.
A little girl was sitting in the doorway of my kitchen with a game she picked up and brought to my coffee table. There was a woman sitting next to me and a woman sat next to John Paul on the other side of the table, I presume they were on the floor. We played Monopoly.
I’m not releasing the poem. I’m not writing beautiful allegory and I’m cursing the power of the poetry that I’ve made available as well as admitting I have a good many people under retention. I’ve released some of it, but not all of it.
Yeah, ya’ll. You should be worried. You’ve tormented me to the point that you’ve squelched my author life. I’m connected universally in ways you don’t want to admit. You go ahead and be worried. I’m resting. I’m recuperating. And I damn well better find more time to color, read, and use free hand art to express what GOD is saying eternally universal.
enough is enough alREADY
in allegory the feature image dudette is probably me lolol
I dunno. I’m not amused on Twitter, obvs. What do y’all say about Mr. Twinkie? Is He amused?
The hawk waited until I snapped a picture above and then left me to snap the sunshine on my morning walk 2-14-2020. Jeff is correct and America knows I’m a trophy wife. America knows too much. Cool.
Now America knows. People have been trying to force my allegorical name Tara into my everyday life for over two years. They always hear the T and never hear the C.
Fine. Call me TARA. I will look at you and smile. Tick tock the Wicked Witch isn’t dead. She is well cared for and fully fed.
I sent Dorothy home. Literally. Your loss, not hers. My gain, not his. (Job 42). Any questions? #HappyHalloween2020.
I will wash out the cup and scatter the ashes and you will shortly see Cara Coffey buying Starbucks and coloring at her local place anywhere in the world. Same with Summer Moon.
Amen. Don’t fuck with my businesses. Do you understand? No, you didn’t. Have a nice death. Wait until Easter. I’m going to have so much fun with America this Easter.