She looks up at me with a glimmer in her eye

               Flickering florescent lights squint

                                        In the shapes of diamonds

Reflecting paintings at potted plants

                                And coffee steam.

        She tells me it can’t be done,

                     I tell her it can

                                  And it must,

And she laughs as if she were at fairyland

               (when faeries still existed)

                    and she eyes her yellow childhood key

to the amusement park

                encircled by poverty

    and water so polluted it burned.

  We read Ginsberg and cry

                  And decide to love Kerouac

And instead hate the women who let the poetic genius

                          Hate them

     And fuck

                    Them simultaneously.

    I drink mad vanilla and allow bad music

                             To thump in my pierced ears

And air conditioning to dye my everlastingly dry eyes.

There is a man drinking whipped cream

                               And writing manifestos

As he sits below a faceless girl

                    Vulnerably hiding behind her naked body

   And all I can think about are tulips

                       And Thai sculptures

    That guard the King and I