Colonic for the colonial

We're western.
You're here, we're here.
So let's relate.
Why are you here?
Let's not relate.
It makes no sense for you to be so pleased,
Here,
A terrible voice,
an unfair cadence rocketing about the conch,
dim fade, reverb staid.
Glass blown mind made pure and willing
for the feedback loop of bluey colonial scoff.
Grandad and his switch,
Mum, dad all checked out and gone.
Gold clogged, silver fatigued.
A puke on my hands,
glistening, trembling streaks,
chilli crab residue,
the pause before I find you -
Ya-ya-ing, yawing,
as you were,
yawning.

Seventythree To Go, Mrs. Dalloway

When the cousin you could lose without much regret
sends you a gizmo, via email, to calculate how many days you have lived,
(did i say without regret? did i say self-actualizedly?)
and the number turns out to be
seventythree
short
of
20,000
(did i say leagues under the sea? did i say miles for an oil change?)
....
A party must be planned for two and a half months hence.
Remarkably close to my 52cd birthday/I'm thinking underwater theme?
submarine sandwiches, pickled octopi, corners lit with lava lamps,
or maybe just a play on julesverne
jewels, vernal, green jewels, emeralds, ah,
suddenly we are back to Oz,
ok, an Oz theme...
munchkins, small appetizers, poppies, opiates suspended from the ceiling, sentimental songs,
the movie playing in the background, maybe upside down,
flying monkeys outlined in chalk on the floor,
(therapy has got to have SOME results)
Mulish kick, must the cousin be invited?
Planned my wedding in a much shorter time.
Mulish kick, didn't invite the cousin to that, either.

Dorothy's Biographer Struggles With Why Witch?

The look on her face
good witch or bad witch?
Never, why witch?
Not, You Don't Belong/Which Way Should You Leave?
Not, Dog owner
Not, Braids Offend The Great and Powerful Oz/Lop Off Its Head
Not, Even In Oz We Know Dress=Girl
Never, Miranda! At Last!

The 74 years' question exhausts the subject.

The biographer corks her pen, ties the curtains fluttering too close
to the bed where Dorothy rests, under green eiderdown,
blue-ish skin sagging over frail hands too arthritic to handle an egg.
The transplanted Californian stares out the window where the real confusion began.
Did this wood square a reality too grey to ever re-enter?
Would this ancient, crazy biddy ever give  an answer
one could hear uninterrupted
by chicken noises?