Where Old Poems Go to Die

This is not a tiny poem; this is an  old one. I found a bunch of my old poems in the murky depths of my basement and thought I had better put them on here to document them before I lose them again. It's funny (odd and ha ha) to experience them again after so long an absence.

 She Clicks Her Heels and Heads East

She aims directly at the heart of things.

Dorothy spurring her funnel cloud

red stilettos in the stirrups

kicking Kansas away.

She blew into the Algonquin

eyes round as tables, tail winds

waggling like a witches teat.

Everything is fodder for her vortex.

Everything tied down is coming loose.

In the west, she found her own pleasures

     straw men and tin heads

     pink gin and hip flasks,

her long Midwest gams wrapped

around some Hollywood silverback --

and all those yellow bricks

like bad novels 
hurled with great force
through the glass

of the Algonquin's front door.