One summer of apocalyptic calypso
and my backne spells “Help Me,”
so I lie on the beach to flag down a plane.
No one came, just the sun laying
on its horn and a blonde bombshell
sunscreening her whole shebang.
Why is there no book about Champagne’s
most powerful women? Shark fishermen say,
“Morning, chum,” as I sashay the boardwalk
in flip-flops and into the arms of the tiki bar
regulars. Even the car horns say, “Aruba.”
The clouds aren’t even a thought apart.
And nothing a mirror holds is its own.
Today you’re the oldest I’ve ever been.
You’re pretending you’re me, Matthew
McConaughey. We’re the guy who
jumps a thousand ladies topless
on a Jetski, until sadness launders
our face. Until sadness launders our face.
When I act, I never let me in. Can you
feel ourself kicking the dollhouse
of ...