I want to go into the empty room
and occupy the nostalgic zip code.
permanent child, instinctively I wake and spread
five fingers on the wall that feeds the ceiling.
where have all the familiar confrontations
gone? supposedly I got the facts from you
touching finger pads with sophisticated
babysitters, someday she will take
me seriously and at that point I will
talk back to no fancy villain, hoist
myself into the top tier trades,
read the paper so I am informed
as fuck and ready for the disney cruise,
shaking the hand of some suffering asshole
in a mickey mouse costume, french
fries in the wave pool forever.
all this aside, I am a nice person.
my favorite cookie is the fig newton,
and if you try to comfort me I’ll be
your favorite bedtime terrorist in black,
I’ll rub your shoulders til they bleed like tiles.
my favorite balloon is the one above the basket,
the one that takes the people away from me
(in the wicker dream that takes the cake)
I have a fire lit between my eyes,
bright like an animal in heat.
if I neglect to produce my own
apocalypse, it is only because I need
a vacation before that vacation
can bear witness to its own abortion,
this shit is copyrighted