we didn’t finish the history of fidgeting,
but it does seem they’d like to hire me. now
I’m a Boston fruitcake, spend time with
the slugs investing in Herman Miller futures.
the complacency of a certain 20-year-old
as said complacency relates to my com
plicity in said complacency = big tits
in a feel-good movie. an understated
performance. my four-line stanzas are
sharper than your four-line stanzas about
my lingering feelings for you-know-who.
only, seven ages ago, you-know-who was
you-know-where. we grilled margaritas,
donned our chaps, danced, pinballed,
drank, and fried mushrooms. ever the
chameleon, he passes out from the
screams upstairs, having nearly shoved
me out of the way in time for the movie,
sparkling debate about the mood ring
on my finger. for example, marry him.
as usual, the mushrooms were delicious.
but my strategy engendered poignant disc
ussion, a flop, quite unlike our rough
and raunchy flower scene. I can still feel it.
