I sit
at the
center of
one worm-
holed world,
wanting to
wave words like
"young" and
"skinny" at
women who
would want to
hear them and
I wonder,
with Williams
in my ears,
"What did I do
to deserve this?
Am I happy?"
Hair curls
down from
crown to
third eye to
throat to
heart and
I wince as
my solar
plexus sings
Celtic chants and
its songs
radiate out in
waves of
"oohhmm."
If you've
already heard
of me,
that makes
one of us;
I'm driving a
mint-condition
hand-made
bus powered by
thunder claps and
electric jazz melodies
into the
cosmic sea
to meet up
with Pluto and
make myself
his mistress.
Chain me to
the baobab
trees of your
perceptions and
I will claw my
way to the
mountainous flat
tops of your mind,
laying my limbs
out like wet
laundry in
silent soliloquy
dedicated to
your soul
finding a
use for
the word
"free."
Your ice cream
cone dreams
may start to
melt deliciously
but forgo your fear
and lap them up,
then abandon
the drops for
want of
fresh fruit and
cool, cool water.
Be cool,
baby,
let the otter
make the
moonlit path to
paradise and
mount your raft
to ride it only
twice in
one life.
Keep your
eyes peeled
and put the
carrot skins
in the compost.
You are the
one you need
most.