—from a Saturday morning infomercial
Broadcast on our 8th anniversary during a
Kylie Minogue concert, her latest, the one
we saw a few months back, only this one’s in
London, because I’ve been more than a little
confused, texting the silly world a collaps-
ible laundry basket, Tylenol PM, vitamins,
red stain for the new frame, some new
cologne, a forgotten English word-a-day
calendar, those new Sharpie pens which
should have been removed from the list
weeks ago, a ream of paper, Tums Smooth-
ies(!), Q-Tips, Scotch Pads, Kleenex, shave gel,
not quite being honest with myself or anyone,
feeling condensed by the gist of the week,
the stressful haze, as it gets carried away,
who knows where, just grist for the mill of it
all, and I’m walking the clog carrying a sign
that reads Wanna fuck me tonight?, only,
at least in the moments when the fog briefly
clears, not in a good way, not in the right
outfit on a rainy morning or a slow after-
noon. Meanwhile, let’s divert, let’s ride
this wave, let’s get our heads in the game,
let’s celebrate, let’s be a long vacation
and buy domestic products like dust-bins
and new-fangled carpet suckers, ducking
in and out of warm reality, let’s go condo-
shopping, so awesome and so fulfilling
we send invitations longer than usual,
a telegraph, a tender kiss, a full report.
