Everyone tells me to work on myself. But
my self is not a good project,
a jumbo tongue
in a runway
rubber suit, a run-a-way bladder on wheels.
In the vein of this, in the vein of that,
in non-manageability, I just wanna make out--
my taste buds rippling and glow-in-the-dark,
to this world, that world—
fat black hoses.
I adorn myself
with tricked-out mantras—
bindis, pasties, gold stars—
because my self needs somewhere to go.
Ladies & Gentlemen,
Take me home & make me delicate.
It’s slipperyhere in warp drive. In my blood fold, deep-in-space—
chin deep, in your face, I’m dripping klieg lights, chinoiserie, lipids,
glory be to deep down things, plural and salivating.