(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 Millionaire.
Off 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.
