��� She looks up at me with a glimmer in her eye

�������������� Flickering florescent lights squint

��������������������������������������� In the shapes of diamonds

Reflecting paintings at potted plants

������������������������������� And coffee steam.

������� She tells me it can�t be done,

�������������������� I tell her it can

��������������������������������� And it must,

And she laughs as if she were at fairyland

�������������� (when faeries still existed)

������������������� and she eyes her yellow childhood key

to the amusement park

��������������� encircled by poverty

��� and water so polluted it burned.

� We read Ginsberg and cry

����������������� And decide to love Kerouac

And instead hate the women who let the poetic genius

������������������������� Hate them

���� And fuck

������������������� Them simultaneously.

��� I drink mad vanilla and allow bad music

���������������������������� To thump in my pierced ears

And air conditioning to dye my everlastingly dry eyes.

There is a man drinking whipped cream

������������������������������ And writing manifestos

As he sits below a faceless girl

��� ����������������Vulnerably hiding behind her naked body

�� And all I can think about are tulips

���������������������� And Thai sculptures

��� That guard the King and I