Girl pink energy expressing itself openly and unashamed.

Boy bone energy permitted at last to respond to it purely in the same fashion.

I found this rare thing at a party in a closed bank, after hours.

In suburban Glendale.

In the company of Marianne Williamson, who was feeling quite a lot more milfy than I’ve seen her in a long time.

Everyone kept all of their clothes on.

It was the barbie movie, but for real human adults with brains still intact, and passions still somehow against the odds undimmed.

And I had to dream it into being, because there’s far too little of it in the real Glendale, or anywhere else in this real and unrelentingly ugly world.

I know it was quite stereotypically the dream of an old man.

But I’m telling it to you anyway. Open and unashamed, because fuck it–I don’t have anything to lose by living that way.

For a change.

***

A-em, scuse me sir could you maybe put down the newspaper just for a second

We was all alone
and she said Tone (-Lōc)
Let me tell you one
(more) thing
or two sentences
of a minute each.

The fact that I woke up 24 hours before with that Falco song about Kathleen Turner on my brain was a preview of coming attractions for the pink-lit dream.

Both things and the attitude in which they’re steeped are partly attributable to finally having enough meds for my bio-condition again.

And.

When I’ve whined orangey (naggin’, braggin’ putting things down in the world) over the course of the past few months, in some sense all I was really asking for was someone to gonna-care

about things exactly like whether or not I had those meds, could afford them, could navigate the evil system efficiently enough to get them; to get what I

really needed: an echo of what I was asking in the months before I did what I needed to do in order to get the checks rolling in again, way back early in this same benighted year.

It’s not an easy life for anyone right now, and

yes I’m self-centered, selfish, and

most everyone I know and knew had their own fish to fry on up, down at the Bellagio or in Molokaʻi or
wherefuckingever
(not too well-humored ’cause life doesn’t show any pity).

Whatfucking was left was a nearly total isolation
and of necessity
down in the local ditches
I called it Splendid.

Called it splendid and spit those facts across the table at the holiday, which of course changed nothing
but

Now in the winter depths I rub the cream into my shoulder and twisted flowers
(somehow against the odds)
begin again their vivid bloom.

Now at last again the walls of bedroom red are washed after all this time
and I am making my way to sleeping between them
after so many cinders of years (he wants a kiss)
“You can be my principal”.

Is it a dream
or what?

Marie? Kathleen? Marianne?

Can you still hear me babe?

Claire?

Do you know what I’m talking about?

I’m just talking about
I’m just talking about
not the first kiss of my life
I’m talking about

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