My Birthday Poem

Desk jobs make me suicidal and homicidal.
I wanna be a flo-jo, yoga-instructor, jet-setter novelist.
I wanna be on the Nobel List.

I want hot pink and magenta rays to come out of my eyes. I want hi-definition thought bubbles to pop out of my head like I am a cartoon super-hero.

I want all the junkies to nod out when I walk past them; cuz' I'm that dope.

I want clothes that fit right.
( I want my boobs back, except I don't want the extra 50 pounds I lost back. )

I want a birthday balloon ascension with 331 turquoise and yellow spheres of color bursting up into the sky. A hundred and sixty five of each color and
ONE black balloon to
represent the Catholic original sin they said I was born with.

I want all the colored balloons to drift into the distance, while the black one lingers.

I want the black balloon to burst and out of it, I want there to fly a cherub dusted in gold, wielding an arrow that shoots right into my heart and makes me re-born.

Complacent Adjacent

Moving to the top sideways

Forward neck, head first, trying to figure it out.

Push the scapula on the right toward the scapula on the left.

Jinx button is locked like a safety on a gun, so I tilt my head to the side and talk with my hands.

Exaggerate for the comedy routine like nature steps through the woods,
pretending the sewer stream storm drain is a creek,
where magic and graffiti cover the walls of the echo tunnel under the apartments
where there used to be a swim club.
And now there is a laundromat in the McDonald's mansion.