Star Bar
by Lesley Ann Wheeler

Loving you is a way to be the nun I’ve always wanted to be. You watch the basketball, I write it all down. If dancing comes within five feet of me, I’ll become more focused in order to repel it. I know you drank my purified love water out of the flower pot mug. The height related crack starts with a v. 

See? G-o-l-d. It’s so lucky you’re expelling all this energy for us. You’re a coy delivery of drinks. I remember your dream treatment– my number one advice would be to smoke until you don’t understand who you are.  

What can I say to convince my sister otherwise, keep that quo
te from her? You didn’t recognize me because I cut my bangs with the kitchen shears a few weeks ago. I reject the notion that cutting your own hair equals insanity.

Upgrade of conception. If she were here I’d tell her I am fucked over by the way she envisions other humans. Your teeter and your scent. I wouldn’t mind helping you. It took an insurance company to conceive of an invisible house, floating furniture. 

I knew you were bound for non-generic greatness. Hot walks at night in a strange land– can I be convinced? I don’t want to know. I want the island mouth-feel, a room of other’s babies to share vowel sounds with while the sun is rising, apexes and then focuses to burn, burn. I can love bugs, or dust, but can I un-love drugs? Love acceptable means more? I’m on a leap year, I choose service to you, let’s count plastic bears, group them by color at your place.


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