Monday, April 23, 2012


Camille Roy stole my dildo! 
(a true story a fiction an homage anachronizm)

All along it was Camille!                 But no, she’s never even been here. 
Wait.                  I invited her a few times,                     and she RSVP’d “Yes”

at least once.    [Agh!  It’s just her poetry does this to me!]       I dip my head
into a bowl of tiny leftovers.  Chow fun, asparagus, sour tofu, brown rice,
and tiny chicken.  I  love my blue head.

Distracted, trying to figure out which Kevin Costner movie
Erin was in such a panic to get us to remember the name of.
Shouts of Dances with Wolves, Waterworld, The Mailman (that
was me; I remember nothing, but I remember the trailer for The
Postman vividly.  Which for some reason leads my mind to Tina
Turner and I shout – with conviction – MAD MAX!)   ?

Finally, she basically has to give it away.        “Three letters!”
                                              “In the first word?” Masashi asks.

Do they really play JFK “all the time” on “regular television”??    I ask.  I’m in
awe of television.  I wonder about it.  About what it must be.  About what it is. 

I’m up to March of 1999 tagging photos, close to when I flipped
the switch.  Off with Who Wants to Be a MillionaireOff with
Reality Television.  I look at each (in contrast?) hyperbolic character
(aka my closest friends) on my computer screen (where Hulu ails).

Scene: a comedy, mostly.  Abs-enhancing gutterbelly and diabolical
laughter.  Then.  Not now. 

Now I brace the back of my head with fingers-clasped-open-palms,
lean back and sort of shake-roll my eyes up into my head.  Add slomo
smile, tiny build-up (almost. no. movement) & upturned lips that warm –
like a plugged-in heating pad curtaining your ribcage – from the inside.

Who the fuck stole that three dollar dildo?  Whatever!  That winter
held a veritable dildo diaspora in its clutches of rain and fog.  Who’s the
bozo who crammed his head into every drawer, crawled into each closet
and removed everything one by one, moved the refrigerator into the
middle of the kitchen, unplugged for hours, scuffing the floors,
stirring up legendary dust.

With lips upcurled like a Stepford Wife and eyes rolling up into the
disco ball that ate my brain [my Barbary Lane] I collapse into couch,
bite tongue, breathe in the Buddha, breathe out a bloody mary into a
[MOURNFUL:]  square wheel.      It.  Was.  My.  Fucking.  Dildo.