Coup Du Journalism

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

Comments chime-in,
the concourse
crash-lands at her feet
without instructions,
which is fine, and
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;
turning pages never dirties
one-phrase jokes for wrinkles
out of rhyme.

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's in secret:
pulling strings
from waaaay behind.

If she knew
how her printwork really read,
it would blow
her paper-airplaned mind.
Broken surfaces must never mirror
what cannot be defined.
Inner beauty of the beholden
is reluctance ever-blind.

I'm here, but I'm not.
Single-keystroking the invisible,
pantomiming the star
of my own Dennydine.

From summit to pitiful plummet,
reviewing submissions is where I sign...
Sincerely, with a lick of tequila
and a tankard of lime.

Keep calm and commas common.
At the end of the month
"Congratulations, slob!" is what I find.
Fear is a lost job's induction
to the unemployment line.
Written by arortiz73 (MTP)
Author's Note
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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