Here we are together in the shadow

of The Beatles. We have all known

the elegant fix. Mine is white.

 

As a kid I lacquered my identity

to match things I wanted. A way

to join my own shiny church.

 

I didn’t lie so much as glide.

I was and still am primarily interested

in the surface of things.

 

Like what does success mean in the face

of fame? How does one prevent a lyric

from becoming a text?

 

Try and hold the pink lyric

of the dog’s tongue out from the brown

text background of his face.

 

That is a cause I can join.

I love this song but I hate the words.

Don’t listen to them.

 

Choose the proper shade of white

to paint the light bulb. Something tells me

I’m into something good.

 

You should paint the apple red. Once it’s

done no one can

eat it or use it. That means you win.

 

I was and still am compelled

to put my mouth on the material.

The paper, the canvas, the paint.

 

I see a new white appliance,

I want to lick it. I never owned

The White Album.

 

You can put your mouth on it,

or your name on it,

but you can’t own it. You can’t eat it.

 

The Beatles made it white.

A little famine you can hold

in your hand but not fuck up.