Say I’m 32 years old and you’re 22 years old.
In how many years will we be the same age?
Silly question, right? If you define aging as a process that stops at death, the only way we’ll ever be the same age is if I die first. If you don’t, then we’ll never be the same age. Every time you age a…
Not the only spinning head on campus,
America’s favorite plastic human-exemplar swings,
Low hanging, well-branded fruit,
From a loose zipper pull.
Paint-chipped, ink-stained, pale polyester blend.
A Jansport. A portable sing-sing.
The point is, ladies, to be Barbie.
Become Barbie, and then remove the plastic fetus from your oval abdominal concavity, and then teach her to be Barbie too.
In some box sets, Barbie is the Leader of the Free World.
In some box sets, Barbie is a Prima Ballerina.
In some box sets, Barbie is a butterfly with a face.
The point is, be Barbie. All of her.
In some un-boxed sets, B is the lead in a femme punk band.
B keeps her rights in mind on her captor’s heaving shoulder.
In some box sets, Barbie is a cop.
In some box sets, Barbie is an International Pop Star.
Sunframes and unshaven smirks,
Under bright glares, B bobs,
A fistful of forced nodding in each neon-caffeine-sunrise-hip-hop-with-gunshots-in-it step.
B says, fuck all of you! Especially the fucking Sociology majors!
B’s jewly azures cry washed out hairdye tears.
Her world is always swinging.
Locked up by her own locks, a python’s white nylon snare.
In some box sets, Barbie is a Veterinarian.
Outside, B is a witch doctor’s cursed shrunken head.
A kook. A cunt.
B murmurs dumb blonde jokes to the fleshy part of the bus driver’s hip that hangs over her seatbelt.
In some box sets, Barbie is a Pilot.
In some box sets, Barbie is a Stewardess.
In some box sets, Barbie is the host of the Tonight Show.
What a fall from that glossy cardboard mansion’s roof!
What reterritorializing nonsense has battered Barbie™ thusly?
Ask any of the sages on the street, or her shining thighless herself!
Through a broken beaming bubblegum blotch, B will tell you of sunlit street signs, and spray-tagged eternal salvation.
Unboxed, maybe Barbie is a poet.
“Shine On You Crazy Diamond” covered by Kendra Morris
Oh man, this is amazing.