J.J. Abrams Talks to Himself in the Mirror
Never leave your gun on the side table
Red lips exist to ignite dirty bombs,
veiled Cloverfield threats.
Take a tumble, explode the slickest bullet train,
dynamite in vest pocket,
powder puff magic in tween time
release capsules.
I gave Jennifer Garner a pink bike for her birthday.
I cannot even begin to think about
writing that many Alias scripts again.
Wear pleather: people marvel
at the heated quad.
Visit a closed set vibration whispering under Pac Sun.
Birth your own American monster.
((replaces floss))
East Coast theater needs a Patton Oswald script doctor.
I am never out.
I am always talking to a transatlantic Tom Cruise.
I am a redacted Wikipedia spy.
A mother is eternally vulnerable.
I am one of the fifty under fifty.
All millennial texting is viral code
for Adult Swim Star Trek polar bear therapy.
I like converse slip-ons.
I killed off Adrienne Barbeau’s
character in Escape from New York.
I was seven years old.
Be a trap door robot.
How many soft loving thoughts die
at my metal feet?
Still, inspiration flings itself
at my in-box towers.
Still, I strive for affection from a dead father.
