big hills will be walked and I will walk over mountains too.
fuck and develop arrow straight ideals of what fucking should be like.
brave the indigo searching for dragons on new moon nights.
give the renaissance of the two thousand-and-something’s a chance.
bang about the iridescent halls of another manic-panic brain chamber spasm.
eyeballs peeled in wonder at a saint or gargoyle in another foreign town.
another statue another cappuccino another whiskey sour glass of Barolo.
always the postpostmodern equivalent to the old maid question
brought up in awkward dinner silence by uncle or by high school classmate.
always a small surreptitious smile pasted inside my skull
as I say I may be selfish but at least I don’t have to change diapers.