Brain Halo: bespoke spiritual ephemera

*Dedicated to me as a baby queer in 2022, trying to “date” for the first time since MySpace

Petite social climbers prefer to see shrimp on a menu
Like teddy Roosevelt needed his
animal trophies.

Catch me being sophisticated,
eating bugs.

Always trying to sass out of the side of my mouth.
That kind of clown energy exercised
by familial courtship disasters, personalized plans of neglect
early aughts era reality show shaming at the mandatory supper table
where I was “asked” to cook all the food.

On Easter, they went around the table and said how much they weighed.

Did Persephone feel more alone being with her family?

Did she cry when no one got her jokes?

xxxx

I water plants with my first batch of Lutie Street moon water
They sing, “I thought you were the sweetest kill,” curled into the tightest ball on my couch reading Louise Gluck
slurping spaghetti Lady & the Tramp style
sending playlists instead of texts
high school high fuck around find out quick shit

Being practical never served me,
embalmed in numbness
I let them know that we don’t have to be full time humans this orbit
A tiny idealized dopamine factory is ok for now.
It’s best to eat our mistakes.

I practice falling down without getting hurt.

If I’m a clown, I’m a French-trained rodeo clown (pronounced the French way).

We joke about time-sharing a street cat named Mitski Elizabeth.

They laugh then eat more of
my spaghetti.