Pep Talk for Girl Singers

When your heart has slipped from its case, bounced across the driveway and landed in the mint green lawn chair. When the van is broken down and the venue cancelled and you are so tired of

plucking; it seems no one wants to hear another damn girl song. Some ragamuffin coffee shop singer with a pretty scarf for a guitar strap. You are thinking of getting implants. Changing your name to Missy Obvious so you can at least sell some damn records to all these vinyl breasts bouncing, heads bobbing to

skin/grunt/slap. At least then, you would feel like you are moving something. On those days, I say, go stand in the yard. With your dirty petticoat and kazoo and sing nonsense to the sky until the clouds move.

You let them be black light and shake shake. You be kite string and hillside, cabin and refuge, acres of what Becoming sounds like. You be our one woman search party with a thousand

flood lights shining on anything that looks like truth. Don’t you dare think that the truth is ever unoriginal. There is no expiration date on your purpose. Your

talent can not be revoked. The Universe never runs out. Girl, we will never stop needing you to sing about it.