This is that recurring dream: the morning.
Custodian of glitter two ways
keeper of the world's own
curio cabinet of toilet seat art.
Imagine the Pope
we must. Imagine
the ceremonial naming of the breakfast pastries
at Au Bon Pain. Why not adopt a skull
with wings? Why not
adopt some kid with braces or spacers
the downed phonelines of metro-ortho
astral projection?
We must imagine men
wearing pearls
if we can.
We must hang together in our crysallis
between the friendless poles or drown
in premium soysauce. We must imagine
better endings for women. Better
endings for the miniature golf course
than "this baby deer has a twelve-point
rack" and standing water.
Our eyes like fish have
no second thoughts (so
up yours snorkel up
yours). We give birth
to a child of sugarless gum
more gray and more blue
than a pale tin of
magenta. We call him
Hunting Accident or
"the invention of mauve".
Why not make an unexpected residue
to send to opera school? We imagine
distributing ourselves in glass
envelopes hardboiled.
When we ask an actress to come in and cry
for all the digressions from the human body
we must be able to imagine her saying
No Thankyou.