I am interested in self-development, not self-promotion.
The walls with the magazine images cut outs of me
plastered in my mind my Facebook celebrity
they can all be painted over with a giant roller
The small seance altar made to me, with fake flowers
and charcoal graffiti, dripping where it rains,
the buckets of notes from the misguided fan clubs
even the resentment for not being seen as a pyramid
by the Sheiks--
it can all be thrown out.
In the desert, on a camel, smoking grass, talking to the Pope on the phone,
he roams, my other half, sweeter than the deepest honey
and taller than the greenest tree--
I will hang out in this desert,
improve,
and wait for thee.
