Bibita

Last night,

she dreamt about a brunette man and his wife,

we’re your parents. They had the effervescence of Croatian Hollywood.

The man especially was abundant about his daughter, and smiled to no one else.

The rims of his eyes were simmering red with temper, and he had the overall complexion and compliance of ikra.

Laying beside him, his shirt a starch embrace,

he hooked Bibita uncomfortably to Sunday washed satins like a happy octopus.

Then she woke up, feeling mildly jealous, but understood this concept of a father was revealed to her and no other girl, God willing. And so 5:01 began,

Aero ego biscoffs and moist Magnums,

ice creams or whatever,

once upon a time to a girl who deserved to live forever.

Mediterranáe black jets taxi oft polaroid skies

and capital expats bechamel to the realm of cactus dew thighs.

All avoid the airport Nescafe reserved for my little migrant brother,

recall his cute bluefish skin under the LED?

A stiletto synopsis of her condition, full movie available thirty days after rent:

as she walks to the grocery mart like an Anaheim mommy,

graced with fine pecks martyred by sable hair,

chloroform amounts of Suavitel,

and a suspiciously sprite pedestrian’s view of a delphoid back.

She stops and nods at the vitae of the weather.

Something about the escapée gray parking lot and noon sky was as comforting as a GI hospital from the 40s, also

seemed waiting for the piñata release of an Iberian Lynx and its preceding photoshoot,

beside the shopping cart, under the epileptic club light which was now off.

She stood with the puissance of a person holding syringes by the arterial inner elbows.

The azure hour is sterile and doesn't occur in the rest of the country. Clouds light her skin a pallid or anthropic green of a shaivite god displaced. Her thrift floral skirt, the curb, the heated mirage of a Jiffy Lube stretching a quarter mile, and the tawny cheeks of a little Mexican girl, all were apple pink.

She liked to think of the errand betterment of the family like acquiring a new tin of pastel pencils.

A garage opens to a bloodshot carniceria.

Beside the gumball dispenser, the sun cast her shadow from age six;

flipping the happy braun reminisce of her fructis updo,

tabbed in a 99 cent clip,

a baby woman of periodic tastes.

Correct, pomelo sago, taco bell (headquarters).

She thought of the vermouth commercial

directed by Haussman on PBS

where the model, Gaspard Ulleil’s X chromosome, with a hundred gilded balloons

walked to a lav party thinking

la da da da

la la

ra.

She deltaed too in her flats,

young Bibita who stopped growing at eleven,

lying in a trash-pass-me-down mattress

dreaming of heaven.

Herself acknowledged by the native gaze of her wilderness jaw,

blueprinted Arabic approval, and the Bulgarian remarks.

She waded between the yogurt chiller and wheat aisle,

smelling flies and millet.

A wide 16 mm glance of her torso is held by a jogging ribcage,

spades carved by men who get lonely in the afternoons.

The medic answer to which was a salvo -

shot, shot, shot -

fantasizing glacée photographs where she was lace pretty.

These Diana ambitions for manhigh tears. The customers this weekend

talk no more distinct than the spray on the produce. She is staring at an Indo-European brand chickpea can,

its commercial black a chess piece against the deccan landscape.

Check.

The opial tides of Russian tea time…

the neighborhood kids were playing soccer,

and the same bee was drowning in the communal pool.

Turkish delight skies of economical angelic deaths,

waiting for the powerline spark to at least travel somewhere,

to 90210, to a wild night.

She does homework while listening to Ivanushki International,

an unrelatable raglan sweater boy band who sounds like they’re saying,

“Die in a nuclear bomb!”

She whisks away her tiare flower bracelet,

that clinked and made delicate nature of her wrist and septet maturity of the rest,

emanating with friends’ jealousy.

The metal petals were pink and then black on the inside, suggesting a person that too was pink and black inside -

the coffee drinker, the early driver, the dramatist.

But she wasn’t and if only they had ever stopped by, or kept in touch.

The bed lamp, a tall imitation of a hidden assassin, anchored the room

so that it tilted from the darkening, black marketing corridor

off the borders of countries that end in stan.

She finished cutting her hair, then answered her hot lips phone,

the saturn night beyond her window suggesting that it get communications from Hong Kong.

Her biop slashed all over a vanity, on the age 3+ pill popper

and federal diary on page one. It was just spam.

A barbie bathroom held imagination of the doll in its teal sabon.

A concealer stick on the counter, muddied with fingerprints, somehow spoke of her potential.

Dripping locks and a cigarette,

the time a designer Iranian leather disguising “the middle path” suburban trees

for cue to steal naranjas.

In a pitiful prayer epitomizing herself by the gravel paraphernalia:

a bag of Welch’s assorted gummies, the claw of a hair accessory likely mine,

a napkin from an elementary school, and cocaine.

I suppose You don’t want much of me.

Back there,

the supine comfort of being married forever to a mother

who has green and blue veins.

But I want to want much of me.

Bibita thinks again about the man from the dream and pretends he lives two houses down.

Rich, but pouring the same cheap gulping mango juice. Insatiably,

not even minding that the succor will touch his cote d’azur gold watch.

She thinks that maybe she is the man,

and that living by any chance is going far in a dream.