Thirteenager


I can't help but see the bliss in this last piece of sandpaper.
This obstacle course was built by a laughing technician
whose codfish eyeballs blow bubbles through the relay race.
Am I not meant to laugh?
I know not the way of the unicorn, but my
eagle essence spits firing charms in front of my path.
I am that.
When my dandelion mind melts open and my
crystal clear complexion expands I see
the wriggling worms of eons trickling down my butt hairs.
The leeches dance wild triangles through soft white thighs.
I can have my bagel sandwich and eat it, too.
The underground fancies of complex nudity
brighten my bloody lucid dreams of fish heads on shores.
When I was a thirteenager, my spiked hair, braces,
and lies jogged softly around the schoolyard.
I coped every day knowing that somehow, somewhere,
things would be better.
My capitalism was not yet set,
and my thyroid was not quite pumping,
but my glandular wisdom held one secret:
trust the advice of others.
And that gave me faith. And that made me grow.
And that's all that's happening now.
A bucket of growth.

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