First, three lies.
When I was a child, my parents took me to the forest. There was a cabin, a chimney. They chopped wood, worked to frenzy. The embrace of axe and handle, my mother’s hands an open wound.
I am writing this for the child I will never have, a girl called Sarah. I call her Longing. Call her Tick, call her Bruised Temple. My little rubber sole, my consequence.
I always knew what I was. Continue reading
The Cover of Rolling Stone Magazine
The photographer knows. Calls your name and number, pulls
your star from his private smog sea. Wants you to get quick,
give gullible. The photographer is shout-singing suggestions
from behind his Magna Carta camera lens:
Try tricksy! There you go, pretend you don’t know! Pretend
you don’t want what you know! Give me infidelity! Plump
your lips! Give me click click click! Like you’re the purveyor
rule breaker, and there are Hail Marys for sale!
He seizures Seltzer water, is scream-stamp-skipping
towards an assistant named Tonya, oh, Tonya,
tragic greenscreen orphanet, an individualist
who thought she was better than this.
But isn’t Hollywood just a different kind
of housebreaking? All of its precious pets
reigned into the same ring, panting, panting,
waiting for their cue.