Coup Du Journalism

The forecast for Cinderella
is a clean sheet of paper
with no lines,
so she can crumple it,
and watch the characters
collect in the contours.

Comments chime-in,
the concourse
crash-lands at her feet
without instruction
(which is fine)...
she doesn't need cliff notes
to deliver her special
brand of destruction.

Scissors and staples
go together like
cigarettes and wine.
Paperclips and Post-Its
write the cover of
the New York Times.

Dysfunction is her nature;
immaturity on a dime.
Paste-phrasing never wrinkles
wrung out piece-of-
once-true crime.

And I'm just the editor.
I cross t's and dot i's.
Punctuation's my vocation,
but her flavor's not like mine.
What I pour is in secret;
pulling strings
from waaaay behind.

If she knew
how her print work
really wore,
it'd blow her paper-
airplaned mind.

Broken surfaces
must never mirror
what a bric-a-bracker
can't define-- hardbound
beauty of the beholden begs
reluctance bourgeois-blind.

I'm here, but I'm not; the
single-keystroking god
of the lonesome Dennydine;
invisible star crossed-
conscience of my own
begotten mime.

From summit to
pitiful plummet,
'reviewed submission' is
where I sign...
Sincerely, with a lick of tequila
and a tall tankard of lime.

Check colloquial and tense,
calm your commas, keep'em comin'.
At the end of the month,
"Congratulations, slob!"
is the sentence that I find.
Fear is a lost job's induction to
the unemployment line.