i'm hoping that there will be the exchange of clothing with strangers, copious alcohol, several elvis, bellybuttons, hats, and hotdogs from circus circus.
in the mean time, because everyone loves it when i don't post for a while and post a craptastic poem that holds little interest, may i present:
(after dean young's sunflower, which i could not find on the interweb)
i orbit myself.
i swirl and spin, i circumvolve,
i revolve, evolve—
weigh the effects of my strawberry habit on the atmosphere,
formulate a plan to become a superhero,
absorb the energy captured by the sneaky points of pyramids or
just get out of here, either
graceland or some really juicy part of china
where the light is mathematical and preferably flattering. i hear
the faint and papery sound of aging. i fear the calories expended
do not equal or outweigh those ingested. i develop
a deep understanding of the social significance of rhinestones,
decide that serotiny is not the right method of reproduction
for me because fire sucks and fucking doesn’t.
my respect for full time maids grows large and bulbous—
if someone else were here I might ask him to caress it. memories
of vinyl-skinned dolls built in perfect proportion
by engineers, not god and my mother. her mustard yellow kitchen appliances,
vegan apple crisp (ninety-eight percent fat free),
riding feet up on the dashboard in the old blue car,
walking dogs at midnight… so full
of these ten-cent twelve-stick bundles of past i could
in one undetectable motion
stir them from my ear and watch them fall,
see these parts of myself consumed
by the wide mouth of the machine.