At the soiree, a hot ticket zooms off with a hot potato into the toy
Evening composed of toy conversations. A hot tamale chitchats
With a cold shoulder till he turns into a buzz kill. Some hot shit,
After a couple of stiff belts, cozies up to a limp fish. Lampshade-man
Is toast who is short on dough. People are edible tidbits but also
Bowls of ornamental apples so lifelike the blabbermouth takes a bite
& there will be dental bills & an awkward Novocain-slurred phone
Conversation. Sometimes the phone inside your head rings. Let
The damn machine get it! We have caller ID for a reason: we know
The gender of babies before they’re born; the photo of the blind date
Is Photo Shopped. The longer you procrastinate to call back the easier
It is to never but this is only a modified version of yourself you procreated
We’re speaking of. Think metaphorically of the corner convenience store
As the end of civilization. If the delivery-guy drove beyond that horizon
He’d fall off this flat world or discover an undiscovered continent within.
You feel bad when you make people feel bad but you make people feel bad.
It’s like a washing machine world clunking with coins left in pockets.
It never gets spotless no matter how many times you cycle it through or switch
To the new improved detergent & the sound drives you bananas. Try living
Outside the toy-years. Adult-ish children homestead-squat in unfinished playrooms
Rehearsing non-talking. They scrunch their beady eyes to make you feel bad;
They really want you to feel really bad & all they want is a hot-ass-time & not be
In hot water. Blacker hair is dyed blacker, eye shadow promotes eye shadows.
Convenience store windows are bulletproof, but the creepy drunks in checkout
Lines flirt like a twin brother & sister who apply lipstick to each other in the dark.