PETER COLE FRIEDMAN

The Speech Bubble Fattens and I Have Increasingly Less to Say

 

Give me a cardboard cutout
over an avatar any day. Momofuku
has tricked me into thinking milk-
flavored ice cream is new.
Nothing turns me on more than soft core danger.
I get off on hiding. Peep.

James Franco is the performance art
of performance art of not being art. Let’s die
while helping the cashier bag
the almond butter. We’re cursed
in a good way. I don’t want to leave this boat
unless there are free pretzels.

I butt-dialed the pope because my
anger at foresight is religious. He picked up,
miraculously, and even said something
about MetroPCS and unanswered
prayer. Yesterday, a butterfly landed
on my shoulder. Sometimes, that’s to be expected.
I named it Mary Oliver. “A good poem
should be as confusing as an ice cube
in nature.” I’m paraphrasing here. I mean
there, there.

My hedonism has gotten more and more
allergic to bad Chinese food (as if I were an authority).
I put air quotes around “air hockey”
like it knows.
Listen, I’m dumber than you think.
Did you hear that?
Sometimes I go to Taco Bell and just
ask for the sauce.

Let’s watch the Nightly News together
with a total lack of concern for humanity.
I’m holding out the deep-fryer because
I don’t know how to be in a relationship
with these hands.
It’s ok to be scared of spiders. Just don’t
let it screw with your career path.
In other words, you should still floss for the interview.
But if you know you’re going to die
tomorrow why are you reading this?

Sometimes I sit down on my laptop
and just grind. Ideas have to come
from somewhere. I can feel myself
wrinkling like someone else’s skin.
Quick, quicker.
It’s hard to imagine Martha Stewart
in booty shorts. But someone has to
do it.

I want to do what the Grand Canyon
has done to all hearts ever
to yours in a tweet. I want to flip pancakes
in our rented Miata. Why are you crying?
The GPS said make a left, but when
you go left, there’s just a room
full of doves. It’s very zen
is a thought I’ve had after almost everything lately
so I know it’s bullshit.

The symbols in my allegory are:
Blueberries, a Scottish Terrier named
Mr. Coil, and AIM toothpaste. I’ve decided to start
coming up with the symbols first because the
world moves like a light sabre.
What a whiz. I’m going to buy you
a dictionary and flush it down English’s
favorite toilet. We’re getting close.

I’m Instagramming your turtle
because our web-presences are growing
apart. It happens. One day,
our love is a Top 40 hit. And the next,
we are cleaning up Michael Bubl√©’s
echo chamber with a rabbit’s foot keychain.
I should draw a map or something.
Nope. Take off the goggles.

Yesterday I did something original.
I put Nutella in Nutella in
your stomach. There is turbulence
and then there is turbulence.
This was both. Like reality and
reality tv making out
for the paparazzi. Except it was
pitch-black. Except Kim Kardashian spoke
like Kourtney Kardashian.

If I were a sorcerer, I think the first thing
I would do is make everything a spell.
When I kiss you it’s because I’m pissed
about inertia.
Every noodle is connected. So Lady
and the Tramp are reinforcing a false binary.
And that’s just what some kids watched
in the 90s. Hinduism says it only gets
worse. As far as Hinduism goes, I like Hinduism.

If it’s too soon to go back into the pool
then maybe eat your boom box.
I feel like burping the Frank Ocean
version of your coldest thoughts. Summer
needs to work on its beach body.
That’s what I mean by a tasteful
but overcast sky. That’s what I mean
when I finish your smoothie with a sentence
like “the blender is floating away.”

Like most things, I look better in calligraphy.
I look better with my head detached.
But my blood and I had this pact.
We both feel emotions at the same time.
I pick up the clock. Nope – it’s not
that. I’m pretty fine on my own,
listening to Alan Watts lectures on YouTube.
It’s the rain I’m worried about, how it must
feel responsible for all the deaths
related to Seasonal Affective Disorder.
It’s ok. It’s funny. It’s S.A.D. I’m with the rain.
I’m crying. I couldn’t tell you the difference.

I bought you this apple. Please don’t
go crazy. Unless it’s nutritious.
Unless I’m the pyramid. And that’s
years from now anyway.
Ray Kurzweil-style. Ozymandias-style.
I do wonder if names, if names in art,
do that, like the orange in Easy Mac:
sustain. But I think either way it’s nice
for people to drench each other
in their time. It’s the log flume in us.
We’re all wet before the ride.
Mostly I save up for nothing and count
the ghosts on the way home.
And there’s something to be said about
keeping whatever-is-before-almost
well-shined, kissing before the light
changes.

That’s why I’m smoking this cigarette
like its sex. And I don’t even smoke.
Did you know that?

 

Peter Cole Friedman is a Brooklyn-based poet and co-editor of glitterMOB.

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