I’m glad I know you

I admire your $800 Swedish jeans made from paper
that you only wash once a year, and I’m all in awe
of the ampjoules you give off when you’re sprinting laps
around me on the sidewalk it’s like having diaper rash
in the Sahara only more painful when I watch you
sashay across the room, all plump and unfortunate
as a cardinal flying into a window at high speed: you can’t
tell where the feathers end and the blood begins. Imagine
that eighteen inches from your face every morning
for the next ten years. You and your golden calf, your
pump sprays and your organic cotton sheets. Let me
loop a film of you over the Pegasus with her battered
lipids, her momentary grace, her equestrian glee.
I was razor sharp lemon drops strewn on the market floor
you were the cloud of unknowing meets strung-out debutante
meets that cat-faced drummer from KISS. All of this is super
relevant to no one but you and your lonesome pine scent.
One time we built a shared world of the mind. It glinted
and shone and terrified, like pulled-out cassette tape
by the highway.


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