I missed supper

Tonight, I forgot to feed
myself. I blame Barthes
and his Mythologies,
also Rachel
and our Friends.
Skyflakes truly
is a godsend
heeding prayers of achy tummies
since the 1960’s. Viva
Monde MY San!
Should I make coffee too?
But it’s 10 and my
tomorrow starts at 7.
I will skip breakfast,
meal for the wuss not the tardy
Hunger is for the weak—
oh shit,
I’m hungry.
Now why in the world
am I writing in verses?
Is it the hunger that pushes me
to pull—rather desperately—
a Ginsberg or a Bukowski?
Or even an O’Hara
‘cos I’d really like to have a Coke with
or without fries.
I suck at this, I know,
but even Leav’s bangs has fans
so who knows.
Reminds me of a windy Friday noon
September of last year
when I cut my hair short
really short the strands dangle
like hushed wind chimes
a nervous inch atop my shoulder.
Straight too
no layers
expecting to be the cherubic
yet sultry Lauren Tsai
only to find in the mirror a child
a 10-minute shower later
and she said hola soy Dora
the Explorer.

 

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