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on most days, like crystals of calcium
hardened on the edges of a cheese block
in the bottom fridge drawer,
booger guts glue my morning eyes shut
and my hairline turns the forehead to sea level,
and not even the sun breaking through the window
wants to fall into me. but not today!
there’s an ingrown hair finally emerging from the clay
of my neck and a pair of tweezers calling my name.
the autoinjector goes too far into subcutaneous fat
and out come oxygen and blood then in goes a bruise.
but after I clean up, I look in the hole
and see a terrarium of orchid lips slowly unpeeling.
in the shower I sing songs from memory
with lyrics I make up because a karaoke machine
would electrocute me and the water.
did you know Daisuke Inoue invented the karaoke machine
but didn’t patent it. now he’s at home in Osaka
doing just fine, singing the hit songs of yesteryear
and not stressing about the paperwork, as if
every day but today is his birthday. because today is my birthday
and today is also Tom Petty’s Southern Accents birthday.
so many people in our galaxy, which is just one of many
galaxies in a universe that is just one of many universes,
and Tom chose to have that album share a birthday
with only me, which I think is worth celebrating.
I’ll be 20-something according to my birth certificate,
but I am probably a milf to someone.
I don’t have a job but I go to work anyways,
spending the early hours rearranging
the local theatre’s marquee letters into your name.
in case you happen to drive by on the way home
from your actual paying job, with an ice cream cake
tightly buckled into the passenger seat.
the nearby park is usually empty around lunchtime,
so I go. at mid-lunch I meet a duck and feed him
hands of bread. he’s probably killed hundreds of men
like me in cold blood, but I am in a forgiving mood today.