99 Cent Dreams, I wanted to buy you,
I wanted to buy America, really, hold everything
plastic and star-spangled in my starfish hands,
rows of dehydrated nail polish: garish, dried like
a mud flat, like a side effect, color of the soul of a clown,
color of my escape route to mainstream happiness.
What’s funny is, it’s all junk, but only
once you cross the threshold of the glaucoma
gates. It’s the only gold you know
when nose deep in a pile of blonde Barbies,
their sun-stained boxes, exoskeleton of a metallic
balloon family, papered poinsettias in mid-February,
foam pool noodles like discarded bucatini…
the most painful tragedy on my radar: a valentine,
crushed up blue jolly rancher, those zip off shorts.
My grandmother liked to say the best dreams are
made from water, in a landlocked town she put
sliced watermelon in a plastic bag, she put toasted
almonds in a plastic bag, she put jewels
in a flimsy case and flew across two oceans, actually
three – actually, dreaming runs in the family, but what
did I know of other lifetimes that could possibly hold me?
Could only understand: graveyard, treasure trove, half-eroded
dollar bills so soft like tissue paper… small town millionaire,
I wanted to buy and buy everything and then forget
about my riches by the time I woke up on Monday morning.