Supposedly

I just wanted
admiration in his eyes,
in his wise eyes,
eyes wise like eyes are wise,
eyes wise like the way eyes are wise
surfacing up through a crème brule or a quiche
kind of wise eyes.

But I just wanted the custard,
blueberry-rhubarb,
a comforting
bloom.

I know that.

I know Japan
was celebrated yesterday,
but it is not
perfect – it’s not
apple jacks floating above
dried blood that stained the floor
or the loose version
of cough syrup type of perfect –
that type of the deodorant
never sticks or hangs
in the vending machine
leaving you sweating like
an angry hog, no not ever,
not once because we’re in Japan
for Christsake type of perfect
that does not exist –
not even in Japan,
not even after a birthday.

I guess as if to signify
after all a happily-ever-after,
I decided to make a
cheese cake gas station.
Yeah, me – suffering from
Washington’s Youngest Tree Syndrome.

Who woulda thought, huh?

The way words are symbols for things
actions, qualities you sometimes just
want to throw them in the woods
or light a firecracker under your
look-out bird then run back home
and fill a toy truck
with cheesecake
from the pumps.

And they’re ain’t nothing
no one’s gonna do about
nothing not meant to be perfect.

If that ain’t perfectly
reasonable, I don’t know
where Japan even is I guess.

Me, last and least of all.

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