On Girlhood: Understanding Fibonacci Sequences

Girl 1 steals daisies growing inside her belly button and trades them on the train for sarcoline paper which, after some investigation, she finds might just be skin. By jove, what a deal! She sews her skin holes together and bumps into

Girl 2 who has always believed in nikhedonia. She likes what victory smells like. She will sink into the grass carpet in her car before she lets go of anticipatory success. Oh lordy, aren’t collarbones so sexy? She slides her hand into the space between her neck and bone. In the next train car,

Girl 3 is tired. She wants nothing to do with the other numbered girls. When they approach her, she innocently takes her toes off, balls them up, and throws them like little pellets. Once her toes are gone, she takes her nose off, packs it tightly, and launches it. But she too believes in nikhedonia, though victory has always eluded her. Her tonsil, kneecap, bone and finger (minus a pinky) bullets are effective and no girl will ever comfort her again. Meanwhile in the kitchen car,

Girl 4 cooks hair soup and hair cake with a hair ladle. Before she opens the hair oven, she thinly slips between kitchen tiles. She doesn’t return. As a result, all her hair foods burn up and burn the car down too. What happens next is none of your business. A drop of blood on the counter is what makes

Girl 5 realizes the earth is not the earth at all, nor is this a train. In fact, it is a sphere of a girl’s A-line skirt. We are all living under it! She just peeks out from the world-sized skirt and laughs down the street. She rolls in a human-sized blade of grass down a hill and

Girl 6 died last week and time was burnt wine. Her obituary was citrus-squeezed indeed. But genuinely lucky

Girl 7 who only picks the very airy cherry tomatoes, which she will immediately slurp up. With her tomato-d body, she will ring bells on earth. A patient

Girl 8 has observed all the girls. Come, sit with me. This train moves at the speed of sleep. Because of this endless observation of the girls, her neck is a sliver, snapping from all the consistent circling. Around and around the skirt, her head turns. In the center of the skirt,

Girl 9 cannot stop drinking water. Soon, her stomach will burst in the ocean, and she will be absorbed, or it will be absorbed in her. In the milliseconds before, she ponders if she can reverse osmosis her way out of this mess. Just, then, a whirlpool opens up and twirls in the shape of

Girl 10, who notices the equations of the Fibonacci universe in the swirls of her snowy, inky coffee mixing and half of a plushy seeded strawberry. She clasps all the girls’ hands (and Girl 3’s remaining pinky). She too exits the giant skirt. In the shape of a human, she stands atop the world-sized skirt and screams in the shape
                                                                     of a human vortex,
                                                                               sucking in
                                                                                     everything,
                                                                              leaving only
                                                                                     the home she
                                                                              was born
                                                                                         in.

 
 
 
Dual Soup Delusions

oh boy
                  oh Bauhaus
oh my my
                  mother masked up made
up even though she vomits
                  H. Bayer’s universal alphabet
we rule the world with a Wassily chair
                  what a hoot Herbert!
let’s go to the corner
                  candy cane shop in Contra
Costa County and walk backwards to
                   Half Moon Bay to gaze
where dreams sleep sedated
                   where Itami inhaled
where carnations peek out of fish floor
                   where green screams like leisure
where zebraman fought crabboy
                   where jellyfish are hot air balloons
where the chickies are out to play
                   where taxi cabs are escape tanks
where the Rockwell’s desert boy was a mousy eagle
                   where the ol’ drugstore cowboy finds getaway car veins
where eccentrics are in search of belly buttons
                   where Shinoda’s devils and gods are kissing
where deluders marry delusionists but
                   if my stomach is a sea shanty
then lips are a block of tofu
                   Hello Kitty fooled us too cry like
Yumi Arai cool we’re in the dual soup
                   you and me and if school cutie and
drool boxer like me
                   you’ll too.