I'm mis-com-gob-you-lated

The clucking censorious old biddies,
sitting on a front porch
hissing insults at passing floozies,
relay to me in spittle and volume.
an echo of bitter reproach .

Self-worth 101 hasn't stopped my
reasonable paranoia; Is that an oxymoron?
and Fools' paradise has not closed down
only strengthened its' borders.
I feel once again, like Chicken Little,
the day the planes dropped from the sky.

I hear "you don't tug on Superman's cape"
over and over in my mind,
try to remember what it was like
before my middle name was excess.
99decibels of craziness will
confuse anybody.
The helicopters are flying over Germantown,
and I can find no sandcastles .

250 yards from Manger Square
the Virgin is weeping stone.