come to think of it,
i pay so much attention to you
that i should have a platinum card
to bank on each marble (en)counter
becoming another to rest my elbows on,
gazing into the vault of memory
sealed tight behind my eyes.
there should be checks with my name
pre-signed in xerox: replicas of my tiny
half-finished d’s and my e’s whose tails either fall too short
or reach too far (as i am wont to do,
and doesn’t handwriting reflect personality?)–
fuck that shit.
i should be president of my own branch,
since no one is more heavily taxed by your oblivion than me.