My Best That's Not Too Hot

Personal Poll

Note to the Reader: That girl I mention at the end? I found her. And I didn't have to buy a damn thing: she gave it to me freely.

Personal Poll

There are opinion polls for

  this and that;

There's the Harris Poll and the Gallup Poll,

  the Neilson Ratings (which is a poll in drag),

There are supermarket polls where they wanna

  know which container of syrup and carbonated

  water you like best not because they really care

  but because the ones who answer the way they

  want them to answer will help them launch a

  skillion dollar advertising campaign that wil make

  them even more skillions of dollars because some

  fools will believe anything.

Everybody wants to know

  what you want --

  with ulterior motives.

They've got something to sell, you see,

  and want to know

  real bad,

  just what -- and how much -- you might buy.

So let me tell you what I want:

I want a quiet space

  with sand and palm trees and gentle breezes

  and a green, froggy lagoon nearby

  smothered in sunshine-bloated daffodils and roses

  mothered by hummingbirds and

  fat friendly bumblebees

  with rabbits and racoons

  playing croquet

  on hills of purple bermuda dotted here and there

  with pale blue sycamores where

  mauve monkeys munch

  polka-dot bananas

  and ladybugs

  do the hootchy-kootchy on the rounded tops of

  lime colored mushrooms.

I want a pure, bright white windowless place

  with a computer that

  plugs into my brain

  and sifts through all the

  useless debris

  of my mispent, fucked up life and pulls out and

  puts together

  something meaningful and beautiful and classy

  that can make me believe

  I'm really okay after all.

I want a safe place,

  where war is a cuss word

  and lies are unknown

  and greed and contempt and hypocrisy

  are traits of what we would knowingly smile and

  nod about

  as an ancient, forgotten race that lived here once

  but thankfully died out

  from a planet wide overdose

  of pomposity.

I want a sensuous place

  to take a brainy girl

  with legs four miles long

  and pneumatic hips

  and ubangi lips

  and titties like the Patronas towers

  with spinning red lights on top

  to warn away airplanes

  and anyone else who might try to come close

  when we're charting unexplored territory,

  deep in the jungle of our lust.

I want to walk out my door

  and be in Disneyland.

I want a refrigerator stuffed with

  Alaskan King Crab.

I want a baby kangaroo that brings me cold beer

  in its pouch.

I want waffles and sausage for breakfast.

I want to leave something behind,

  something that lasts, that endures.

And -- mostly -- I want that one single woman

  who will read through this

  and not smile once,

  not laugh once,

  but cries all they way,

  who feels the pain

  from the first word

  because its her own

  and she wants

  what I

  want

  and

  I will buy

  all that she has.