happy birthday, me!

Yay!

lunch poem.

“Suffering Under THE DEATH RAY!”

What is hot chocolate even made of?
cookies daisies
Ian Curtis’s ashes
Creamsicles apples
tree bark
cat’s meow
sour drainpipes
for the zombie pigeon
or Wonderbread
in a blender
with Mickey Mouse
or Rita Hayworth
or cicadia on fire?
some sand from
the attic
some pink dirt
hear it in your ear
Florida to Chicago
some night
with David Bowie driving
the car
drinking absinthe the colour
of Jupiter (a wrong colour)
a February goose kind of colour
(from Colorado, you know?)
yet failing anyway, mostly in Latin,
behind the mask of sleep
(it’s cloudy; why not?)
as I meet the girl at the gate and
return her there,
her gaze like Antarctica — the Atlantic ocean
why is epilepsy so hard to treat for some?

02.20.08