Happy to know you, happy
you breathe, happy you breathe where I breathe: place and time. Happy you're
not breaking any more china, happy about your decision to model nude
chincillas in wax and clay and sculpey. The love beads you make are cool too.
Happy Birthday, Prettiest Bird.  I hope your beads are
minty creamsicle cookie catman
You walking treat. Happiness wears your feather boa
like an inherited crown.  Happiness, your Dauphin
the illustrious potentilla of my very very potent love.
Around you I see sequins, yellow ones
the color of a parking meter. I
leave him alone because he is a legacy.
Because he is the brightest fraud you've ever seen. And at night, when the light
catches him just so, he's a shining arrangement of pieces, nothing like
a tackle box in the sun, not a dis-assembled number five
the hooks implicit, the reelings-in unsure. I fish for a feeling I can rise up to meet
my liverwurst compatiblity rating, you know?
I know what you're thinking, "Cracker" and "pate," but
fungus creation unit.
This is the sadness that surrounds us, Prettiest Bird:
That I used my Althusserian suppository to alleviate my alienation.
I don't care for any of this anymore.
I don't care for birthdays. The bride
doesn't either.