Post-grease pitas and green cheek tarting shots,
and clanks of ice in ever-filled glasses of whatever she's having,
and pursed lips for affirmations of captured narcissism,
and foggy eyed surveys of people circulating rooms
in planned polo shirts in calculated short skirts,
with eventual untamed hair and such confident approaches,
or no confidence at all, but upchucks of emotion
and unnecessary and intrusive conversation
about inadequacies of blah blah you and him and him and you...
analyzing words which were likely accidental
but dissecting tones and adjectives, and ellipses...
or hunger, or lots of hunger,
for momentous caloric feats
of sauces and bagged treats.
for someone's voice with vacuous words
and a nebulous understanding of the vacuous grumblings
that you needed to say, several times, perhaps.
post-the planned or unplanned public humiliation
invading a stranger's personal space
or throwing up cheap tacos on the floor
in a crowded room with moronic girls
in oxymoronic dresses
without sleeves or socks
down dirty mud roads in sub zero temperatures.
hiccups on the steps,
world record hiccups on the steps.
spitting over shoulders
or in between inhales of smoke,
or peeing.
exorcist style.
post-deciding not to decide
choosing not to be able to choose
planning moments where there will be no plan
preparing for having no preparation
dressing for having no semblance of aesthetic appeal,
I've dreamt of a talking horse
who's appendages flailed, very cartoon-esque.
We were quite close,
breaking the species barrier.
Post-dreaming, I miss him,
and the absence of transportational worries.
Oh well horse, oh well pitas.
Oh well kiss,
oh well ellipses...
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