years of family embarassment
combined with sunburns and rosachia,
his choices taboo, which can't be helped
in a taboo world of Springer and Cleo.
he is my salvation when
the ceiling fan looks like a cross
and the vaccum cord is a rope.
the west tower holds him
fifteen stories and eight bocks away
too far away for my cell phone reception,
too many minutes burned on roaming
not enough minutes for my soul
to pour into his equilibrium.
his prize-winning voice won't be heard,
won't be captured by satan herself -
she will never get his soul-signature
and he will never join the show.
he's one lucky man, my fuzzy-necked friend.
we share an insaitable hunger
for Chinese food and palm trees
and there's room for two more
in our steamy chlorine dream.
are you the next eligible?
what a reality show that'll be...
- Jacqueline C. Audrey, 6/28/03
