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.