i noticed an early attempt at this poem below...
so here's the real thing:
Except I Need a Turntable
I used the term “business casual”
in casual conversation today
and I wonder if it has anything to do with the fact
that I’ve been thinking of finding a rich business man
and dropping out of school.
Whittle my waist and go platinum blonde.
A modern Marilyn Monroe to be put on someone’s shelf
and sing Happy Birthday Mr. President to him annually
to remind him of how important he is.
But instead I dye my hair a deep burgundy
and browse craigslist personals
making mental notes of those
who do crosswords in bed at 2 pm listening to vinyl,
and who really like the pink milk Lucky Charms leave behind.
I write emails saying “let’s build a tree house”
and explain to random people that I want to grow celery in my yard,
and I don’t really like celery, but it’s something else to do.
I browse Elle magazine and see future trophy husbands
masquerading as business men; I don’t want that.
I want tattoos to trace with my fingers
laying in bed while you ask me for a six letter word for revolt.
Mutiny.
I want to make an ash tray out of a J. Crew catalogue.
Put my cigarettes out on business causual’s domain.
My smug and silent revolution
because luxury brings boredom
and who wants to spend life as a tourist anyway?
I wish there was a way to Google search
for someone who would send me Chris Cornell quotes
because after all, who isn’t seeking a friend for the end of the world.
Except I Need a Turntable
I used the term “business casual”
in casual conversation today
and I wonder if it has anything to do with the fact
that I’ve been thinking of finding a rich business man
and dropping out of school.
Whittle my waist and go platinum blonde.
A modern Marilyn Monroe to be put on someone’s shelf
and sing Happy Birthday Mr. President to him annually
to remind him of how important he is.
But instead I dye my hair a deep burgundy
and browse craigslist personals
making mental notes of those
who do crosswords in bed at 2 pm listening to vinyl,
and who really like the pink milk Lucky Charms leave behind.
I write emails saying “let’s build a tree house”
and explain to random people that I want to grow celery in my yard,
and I don’t really like celery, but it’s something else to do.
I browse Elle magazine and see future trophy husbands
masquerading as business men; I don’t want that.
I want tattoos to trace with my fingers
laying in bed while you ask me for a six letter word for revolt.
Mutiny.
I want to make an ash tray out of a J. Crew catalogue.
Put my cigarettes out on business causual’s domain.
My smug and silent revolution
because luxury brings boredom
and who wants to spend life as a tourist anyway?
I wish there was a way to Google search
for someone who would send me Chris Cornell quotes
because after all, who isn’t seeking a friend for the end of the world.