January 23, 2k7

I am so awesome,
and you are so awesome
that I can get fired from a great gig
(try, dream job for a wanderlustful young performer;
try, bedrock and tether for the next eight months;
try, “I guess you’re good. But not good good”;
try, “Yeah— about that new kidney, Timmy…”)
and come straight home to write about you.

You’re as economically colourful as a French paperback cover,
as resonant and mysterious as the inside of an accordion.
Every time I look at you, I want to put my hands where my eyes are—
and if I said that to you, you’d know
that that means on you, not on my eyes.

Yeah, life is less than lucky,
and I’m feeling less than comfy
(try, squat broke at the lap of happy;
try, slow and going lower;
try, cramped and treading Jell-o).
I’ve whittled out a failure for my trophy case,
lacquered it up like no-turns-back,
hit the sauce—so liquored I’m pickled—
and you’re so awesome I’m page-dialling you.

Hot dog! you are lovely, over and over.
You speak Capslock to the lower cases of my soul,
Hot Jiffy-loo to my crankier quarters.
If I had three pancakes, I’d give you two—
then you’d cut one in two
and give me the bigger half.

Now, here’s the extra shiny awesome part:
I don’t even know who you are.
You’re a stranger from somewhere,
some Moana checking me up and down,
tossing me a look like live ammo.
I’ve never met you but, tag,
you’re gonna be it.