Sometimes I remember something then
I remember the sun.
I remember people doing dumb things
like rushing to toy stores filled with products
on Christmas Eve evening in Southern California
they believed this is what love is.
I don’t believe this is love, I don’t believe
these kind of people anymore.
They’re floating along out there, somewhere
in outer space
somewhere as spirits
because let’s be honest
that is how they were born to be
the walking dead, the slaves, the constructors of
slaves, the worshipers of kings.
I come close to the set where
the television actors are,
but I don’t quite make it.
There’s a sign on the door that says
so I do not enter.
I’d like to know what’s inside.
Somewhere beige-walled foyers are,
with clean terracotta tiles,
the sun shines in on a brilliant perfect
Southern California morning,
but I do not make it.
I’m not there.
Their children are, not mine.
I breathe in with blood in my lungs.
Then I cough and hack something up.
My children are passing glances at doors
I saw Larry Hagman go bye-bye behind.
Can we play celebrities please,
today, when it rains?
Will there be gift baskets
that we get,
courted and made to feel special
for at least an hour, maybe more than an hour?
For them to give us something meaningful
so we can go home and reflect on,
open our mouths at a later point
and say what we did, where we did it,
how it was done and who it was done in front of.
Can we talk?
Were you talking to me?
I was talking to you in the foyer.
You weren’t talking to me.
Now is my time to tell you what is important,
it is about me.
You don’t have anything to say, do you?
You never do.
This isn’t why we rolled around on the carpet,
this can’t be it.
This isn’t how we play celebrity.
You need to have breasts.