Henchstories I

I am the icon collector,
the idol maker, 
the diddler of words
(Hah!  You know how it goes:
we're all in cahoots)
When the words are primed
and my lips are poised,
I plan to unleash them 
on the hapless world
(insert wicked laugh here)
A villainous calling, yes,
you're right about that.
Writing's a graphic sport.

I try to frame those stories,
you know the kind,
the cool smooth ones that 
slither up unbidden 
and fall from my lips 
like serpents,
Cthuloid. (Did I scare ya?)
Scales agleam,
scales fallen from my eyes,
golden scales
weighing every word;
It's no catchphrase, but
if that ain't a superpower,
I don't know what is.

I can't help that
some of my stories 
are ugly children,
wounded, maimed;
I croon to them when
no one is listening.
They know my heart, know
my kryptonite (actually, 
it's doughnuts).
I can't sell them
so maybe I'm no Fagin,
but every one, wanted or not,
is On My Side.  My Henchstories.
(Though it's hard to know the
heroes from the villains
these days.  Maybe 
we all need costumes.)

Hand in glove with the ugly children,
with the scales and the snakes, 
the idols and the words,
I try to make sense
of this bunco world.
Not to swindle, but to speculate.
Honest, that's all I ask.
No world domination,
not this time 

(though if it comes
with a side of fries, maybe...
No, no!  I won't be tempted.
This time.  
Wait, did you say
doughnuts?)

The thing I can't get is
how do I move forward?
My irregulars can't tell me,
not even the comely ones.
No archenemy rises but myself,
and there's no 10-step program
for reforming from
a life of writing.

(C) 2014 by Rosetti C.
Translunary Things
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