A Poem

 Your fuzzy thoughts of post-Madonna yesterdays
Have little to do with your vanished passion.
Your borderline thinking and corduroy dreams
Have you as neurotic as a two-headed Michael Jackson.
Forget the therapist, child.
Who can know how far into Marilyn monster secrets
You are willing to hide.
Like Freud says. . .
No!
Like Oprah says,
"We need to unite our father atheist with our mother Pope."
That Loch Ness hate you harbor in the Jungian litter box of your soul
Makes me rot like a hooker Queen with a neutered Kennedy.
An alien abduction of Bigfoot's butt is the anatomy of your runaway life.