Blood-Soaked Tarot Deck
A bit like a piece of crystal
you’d stick in your armpit for luck,
I slid out of myself like worms
and so I try not to think a lot of myself
but instead keep my eye
on the sky
and fight the formations there
the dark satellites watching.
I bend an arm
and then the other arm.
I sit close to the television just to count the pixels
but my glasses get stuck in a tiki hut
and the tiki hut is my only on-ramp
and my face is cold and surrounded
by a sick wreathe.
Which I can’t help but touch.
I finish myself off.
I sound the alarm.
I break on through.
I thought my dad was just a Grateful Dead fanatic,
a bizarre form of teenage torture.
But it’s worse than that.
I do blink my eyes at the weird world
I do let me entrails drag a bit, embarrassing.
I do have to ask you,
to ask you before we even get started,
when we’ll be done.
My boyfriends and my dull culture and my lack of shame,
my private life and my
open-faced bid for a free dinner,
I pray you see my signal:
I want an egg salad sandwich immediately
because tofu always tastes like nothing but tofu
no matter how good it looks.
You want to play snap the whip, eh?
Some day I’ll have power. Some day,
if you teach me to fly the Sky-Sled,
if I don’t get stuck flossing
or getting stuck on a barbed wire fence
or swimming through shark-infested waters
or watching The Sound of Music again.
Anything made from tofu
will always completely and totally
taste like tofu.
And I know if I embarrassed myself once
I’ll embarrass myself again,
my costume split up the middle,
or my pants ruined,
or my nose broken
doing something stupid.
Bend an arm.
Then bend the other arm.
This may be your only on-ramp
To that big information highway
in the sky.
Snap that whip.
I’m ready to jump ship.