Rushing Down The Throat Of A Giraffe.

I can’t believe the things I’ve seen with my own eyes. Today it was the colors. But most of the time, it’s the city. The friction of moving strangers and the sloshing lubrication of restaurant conversation. It all works somehow.

I spoke to a man at the bank today and as I was signing this long page of numbers and asterisks, I paused at the date box, my pen (his pen) suspended. I looked across the desk for help, and he raised his eyebrows, not understanding.

Last night’s make up smeared across my face and a faux rabbit fur scarf glamorizing the bad wardrobe, am I getting too old for this?

I am glad I get to look at myself in a corset every day before getting into costume, because I love the shape it forces me into. So old Hollywood, just don’t look for too long.

The man at the bank told me to remember the little people, and I gave a sarcastic wave. His voice sounded like a serial killer or a therapist’s. I noticed while I was running today how many plastic surgeons there are in Montclair, just in my neighborhood. I thought then that if I put my money into an account instead of a jar in my living room I could just walk in and get a nose job. Or something. Of course I am unsure if they take walk-ins, that might be rude to assume.

Sometimes I’ll look at my hands and just remember all the times in High School I went to go get my nails done for some Prom or Homecoming and how I always felt like a spoiled American brat while all the Korean people helped my friends and I pick out hideous airbrush patterns. It’s funny now.

I should have substituted reading for writing tonight. “I am a poem heeding hyper-distillation . . .”