I dress up a lot as a Smurf or Pirate,
but right now, I see two elements in wigs:
tradition and the perspective required
to write soliloquies on hookers,
to call class “work-eth shop”
and ride up in a horse and robe, with my collar
alive in the wind, ruffling the white curls
that adorn my long face. I want to understand
the common poets—but usually catch just
scraps of their common thoughts,
like “I hate women who wear hats.” I hate
non sequiturs and tongue-in-cheek lines.
Please, just write “I love fucking. If we could
mainline after-sex: the smirk in the Black & Mild,
cool heft, point of flame and triumph—we’d all write
of syringes and spoons.” I’d have another muse.
I’d take long walks in red light districts
and watch old strippers, the ones quickened by envy;
their arthritic knuckles crumpling dollars
from hand to hand as Washington’s head
loses his shape (the president’s wig is wrinkled).
I’d wear my wig and find South Beach
expresses nothing but a fear of old age,
baldness, the blue behind our eyelids
staring back at a nightlife cliché.
There’s no pill to pop
to keep from feeling this. I’d hand the attendant a dollar.
The faucet will continue to run. I’d adjust my wig.
I love gazing at beheadings.
Every Sunday I call my father and tell him this.
On Thursdays, we bench press and he lifts more than me.
At 30, the cerebellum rounds out, so I meet with friends
to prove I’m still thinking, to play “make believe”
like kids who call out Ninja Turtles—
“I’m Michelangelo!” “I’m Aaron Burr!” I need more of this.
More dueling thoughts. More wig wearing.