ISSUE: Spring 2014
Beaucoup de musique de Miley on the air—
As one may imagine, there is a Rihanna button, and it is
what you push when you enter the control room, and
yet, wait, forgot which nearby star we’re headed to.
Your “my most dangerous thing about me” is: I’m the Sun, bitch.
Of all the dead, Cézanne is saddest he can never paint you on a hill
of rabbit furs, naked except for your crystal axe, glinting, as seen from above.
My love is in the movies, if you count Vine as that. Everyone
bought shares of Facebook who could and shared it on Facebook,
but no one wants to go gambling with me, but that makes sense.
And like the gray filter of that Pretty Little Liars spin-off,
like so many sets for Netflix’s future operas, our homes are
spacious 3-D haunts that don’t look real with us in them
in hats or on loveseats, until things get dirty.
The panorama shot you took is really cute except I’m
naked in it. Nan Goldin never hid her folders. Why should
where you put things ever be invisible? Wonder-pilot, slow down
and circle us around over Vegas in your finest transparent jet.
It’s ’cause of your smile we can’t stop—and won’t.
That’s what the spring is all about. That and flowers/time.
Where do you go in the old world—when you feel new,
and they tell you to join the (ruins of a) circus,
and mean this busy, open space, where a number of roads meet?
