poem: twenty-four

when asked if there was a God in his film
universe — who would intervene — Wes Anderson said, yes. the girl at
work who is prettier than me is likely
planning to kill me, dissolve me slowly into her perfect hips and
secret knowledge of social networks. you laugh but
she would have ignored me in highschool and she knows and
I know; now we live in false neutrality, I would rather
have the blood and machine gun guts. her face or my face on the
bathroom floor, little boy’s lines of
red-wrist cuts. twenty-four is looming, I can taste it in
a new wave of arrested development and a registry
for patterned homegoods. moving on before the calendar
has let its own, the year is faceless
so I am still no one. the fingerprints of the creator
are very evident when life takes a film-like, when film takes a
life-like quality. maybe this weekend we can film me naked
and see if my breasts move like the anime girls
climbing from their wet robotic second-
selves, maybe during the interlude someone will have
attacks in the bathroom but will calm when her lover’s hand
squeezes the still waters, pulls her into a sleepy
neon-grazed twenties, the sun coming out over
the car, somewhere.