I got that Tammy Faye milk money butterscotch
I got that Mama Cass you know I got that Peter Tosh
—Simian Mobile Disco
What happened? I’m working on my Columbus Day
poem, but first I go on a diet, lose a lot of weight.
For example, today I had a smashed heifer for lunch.
After all, a diva is a female version of a hustler.
It doesn’t seem to be doing any good. Until you
press your ear onto the glacier and listen to the
sea lions. Sue techno for plagiarism. You
realize this immediately. I swear he said
over his ice water while we were eating
crab sandwiches something like “Man,
you are really turning me on!” Then the
softest theoretical kisses. I’ve either
flipped my noodle or punctured a lung.
I balance my checkbook and realize
it’s impossible. Last night I had a
pornographic dream but I can’t
remember it. I must need a new
prescription. Would you be my vassal?
Each student is a Rorschach inkblot.
Which makes it impossible to lose weight.
There’s a spy in my soup. I go to the
bathroom to drain it. At the urinal next to
me is the man of my dreams. He has a big black
eraser in his hand and he’s a lot heavier than I expected.
