Waterbed

Holding onto the phone
as I lie on the waterbed
I’m rambling about how I saw
The president walking about
in one falsely lavish hotel from the 80’s
Looking like his old self
Sporting a Hamptons ready outfit
A tuft of chest hair sticking out
Like they preserved him
Except he looks soft; natural
Worst he looks at ease
And for a moment I am suspended
in simulacra
floating through liquid
Maybe he’s a time traveler
I’m a time traveler

It’s late
And I already put the kids to bed
She says
Call me in the morning

*

My friend’s parents
Updated their home
All modern
A hidden away fridge
Minimalist design
Cloud sofa

My parents’ house
is still heavy glass blocks
under brown marble
Fake flowers
Flower sofas
Imitation gold chandelier

There are rubber plants
at the entrance
Make you feel like
The place is about
to have mold growing
under the beige wallpaper
A humidity seems to cover
like taupe plastic sheets
the tv playing
old tapes of us in this house
My parents’ wedding

I’m afraid to knock over
white porcelain cupids
with melting faces

*

In the closet
is still my mother’s
wedding dress
with the puffy sleeves
and the bejeweled turtle neck

Pictures of us
at five. ten. thirteen.
In kitschy frames

I hate these images of us
More comfortable in a museum
of the late century slump

But I’d rather hide here
than in my new paper house
with wobbly, thin furniture
Where the tv blows it away

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I got all the old horror

I got all the old horror
In my jeans

Enough shades
For thirty picnics
Where we talk about Thomas
And dining
On the regular blood

Mysteries
Of congenital spirit
And flying
Through barbed wire

Our limbs cut
into a million pieces
And splashing
Across the hurried faces

I make paintings
with severed arms
of old friends
And share fake stories
with beauty queens

Open my fridge
And a perfect head talks
All lips should be frozen together
Only perfect eyes blinking

Once for yes
Two times for no
And a tear
for everything in between

I set no traps
Look at my card
I look like a serial killer
I’ve deceived no one

The light bulbs
turn off
in little brains
While mine dangles
Above some ice cold table
As I cut hearts
Into chests of lovers’

Mad man they call me
And yet every morning
I don the girly suit
And smile for strangers