I promised you a garden and a bird house,
but the birds never came, and neither did you.
And the newspapers landed on the doorstep
with the thud of a third war.
They’re working on a machine that can record your dreams.
I’m working on a dream that is worth being recorded.
Waited in line for an oil change.
Nobody gets out of their cars anymore.
Everybody’s waiting for bad news.
The guy cutting my sandwich never looked up.
We both watched the knife slide through 21st century bread…
breathing in the plastic as my credit card swipes right
like an old Tinder flame without a last name.
If it feels like we’re in a civil war it’s because we always have been…
I live in Los Angeles with the YouTube stars and Has Beens…
We’re born into News Feeds and start building our own aquariums…
From delirium we form customized holograms and emoji hearts…
And I got one I can’t send over the airwaves.
It lives in my chest and weighs a ton.
And it’s up to me to carry alone.
Through the war and the digital displays.
I can read a book on the dock in Barcelona but still my Spanish
collapses under one como estas? from bonita oros de Felicias
(this is where you laugh)
I could put on a puppet show, but still we’d never know
who was pulling the strings. Sometimes I think I’ve died,
and this is just a dream.
(Violins and humming and maybe an Icelandic chorus?)
This is where everything changes. This is where as an artist
you make a bold, big move; if I was a singer I’d scream
like Mick Jagger; if I was Jackson Pollack I’d drink a fifth
and throw my shit at the wall. But I’m me, so you never know
what I’m listening to at the Aerosol Ball (by the Felice Brothers).
And I can make these inside jokes all day.
Because art like life is only interesting in the surprise.
It could be a fresh snowfall it could be a flood.
It could be flowers for your birthday or stepping in mud.
My life is a long staccato series of sunset and sunrise.
My life is a full metal jacket rifle…
(this is maybe where the drums come in)
And if you could make any dream come true… would it be the one
where your bed is a magical raft you can float to the stars on
and space isn’t cold at all, and the wind blows through her hair,
and the moon isn’t made of cheese but made of music and melody?
Would it be that one?
I once thought it was impossible.
Because we’re vestibules filled with medical edibles and hentai
we unravel in a scramble for safety from bombs that aren’t falling
flirting with the comic because the drinks were free
my blimp read art of star what a fool…
(put in sounds of a jet flying overhead… trust me)
You wonder if it’s cosmic…
You found my diary and looked for a TL;DR
We took our drinks underneath the lemon tree.
Jumped from an open window with Parachute sheets.
My scarf flapping in a downloaded wind hangs me
from telephone wires like old Nike Cortez
Diamond Opal Imperial Topaz…
This hot air balloon has no fight with the wind…
I blow toward the sound of your voice saying my name.
My heart is filled with helium and makes me talk funny.
I take my photo in a booth and eat my food in a box.