Ginger Killian Eades

Ginger
by Roxie Powell
Miss Ginger wants my head on a stamp,
One which shows my head and face
In profile, something like FDR on a dime.
So it is natural that I query myself as to
Why she desires this image of an individual
Whose single call to fame is that once in
Scott City, Kansas he arched a stream of
Pee clear over the fence at the local stadium
And remained forever known for this feat
in both Lane and Scott counties,
So, I ask, Why? Well, upon consideration
I find that there are a multitude of possible
Answers to that question, Why?
Ginger is Ginger. That is, she is so
Completely herself that on occasion
She just tires of herself and desires
Some virtual otherness,
Now, if you haven't seen Ginger, perhaps
You can't envision just how galvanizing
To action her entreaties can be,
She is proto-sectional, possessed of
Alacrity in all her ways and means
And a bon-a-fide righteous flame.
If that wasn't enough she has a
Histoire of outrageous pain and
Travail as well as delicious accomplishment.
Therefore, whatever your stripe, whatever your
Penchant for addiction, whether lifesaving
Or slavish emulation or even fan-like
Caring and attention-
Ginger's got you.
"Has she ever failed?" You ask?
Well, the fact that you can ask that
Proves beyond doubt that you
Never met Ginger.
I like sweet-cream buttuh; I like toast and jam. I don't mind it when old people say strange things, I find their musings endearing. My morning is always at night. I can live with three hot’s and a cot so long as I have music available...and good music..played loudly. I spell like a moron. I use my diagnosis of florid ADHD as an excuse for the loquacious tendencies I can't seem to control. But I find I am quiet during some points, usually on the second Monday of months ending in the letter "E."
I am sometimes introverted and sometimes more extroverted. But rarely do I possess the temperament of a potato. I like late nights. I rode on a bus once to visit a friend I will never go Greyhound again. I like to talk to strangers. I often find a lot of loot like "chump change" or "dropped pills" under our sofa when I lift the cushions. I annoy myself at times. I teeter between misanthropic feelings while contemporaneously maintaining a feeling of philanthropy. Better for me to be an enigma with a mysterious countenance or a walking contradiction than a Vanilla Barbie listening to the insipid sounds of pop music while smacking gum in between lipstick lips.