A Future Trip

There was a time when
I dreamed of existing
in the Jungle Book-
where loin cloths
held all the secrets and
today we are making home
of a place with no light fixture
in the livingroom
so I attach putty-
glow-in-the-dark stars to my fingertips
and place them on the underside of tables
for tired waitresses and waiters
to find and drive off with,
down the Rio Grande
where a handsome man once told me
an eagle landed beside him
and he never needed drugs again,
so I began thinking maybe
Polaroids fade for a reason
and the letter I sent to a friend last week
is history of these tire tracks
before the internet
set fireworks off in our eyes
and jelly fish oozed from the corners.
Maybe I connected
jungle fever with your hands
when really I could have just
given you some lotion
and been done with this
years ago but now
Jungle Book segues into On The Road-
segues into my velocity
can beat this
once mob mentality dies down
and we sleep in the desert.

I Am Hugging the Silver Fox of Dreams

We are taught to use I statements.
I am part of a generation locked
into a box with mechanical
controllers, who exercise indoors.

I am things difficult because
simplicity could bring happy endings.

I am virtually stalking the world of
broken hearts and things claimed
not to be regrets.

I am staring at the clock as it goes
from midnight to noon
and wondering where the time went.

I am liking of unicorns despite. . .

I am not, will not, label not.

I am Almost Famous
to infinity and beyond.

I am not free-box underwear,
but handmade Halloween costumes,
thunderstorm forts and
puddle-splashing funorama junky.

I am eye-flickering dizzy spells
of ear aches and forgotten
massages from fantasized lovers.

I am wonderments wonderwall of
discertainty and confident walks.

I am neon orange rubbing alcohol- flavor
from golden years and
past greasy pancake lunches.

I am driving sex to work.

I am one part of greatness.

I am a Toys R Us kid.

I am once a writer.

I am not up or even down
just tired.

I am 19th century Polaroid-
these pictures are fading
and turning a funny color.

I am Mrs. Robinson
with the body of a 15 year old
and I am trying to seduce you.

I am fish egg screams outlined
in tan lines, dotted with
vitamin c and GMOs’.

I am cliche velocity,
rain-
bow
road trips
and spooning.

I am Scream in the old sense.

I am saying you are in my writing.

I am drooling llama- coloring book
because the colors always felt right.

I am hugging the silver fox of dreams.

I am questioning skunk aroma,
turning on the switch to star filled sheets.

I am golden tasseled- teal couches
laying on the floor amidst swaying
walls and broken ceramic pots.

I am carnival fun house,
universe painted on the ceiling-
library of fragmented sentences.

I am a directionally challenged bag
of burnt popcorn.

I am nobody’s dried hands
but my own.

I am eight up and down,
left and right
and back again.

I am remember.

I am 1:11 am red cup
full of water hardcore bitch
and this,
this is all happening.