Thanksgiving Prayer Girl
The coach of Team Lavender reads
an inspirational message off of a football
before throwing a perfect spiral into a tight
end's face. Go Lavender! As I am eating
at Ridiculous Burger or cutting my hair, I am
becoming Jesse, who is like me only certain
of things that only Jesse would be certain of:
cupcake dreams, watermelon. Amongst
the Santa Rosas in early, early morning,
love and darkness mean nothing to Jesse,
mean everything to me. In the big fun
disaster, I revisit every place
we loved one another and cry, I fall
asleep to the same song in the back of a Jeep
night after night, oftentimes doubting
my place among Team Lavender's well-hung
Adonises. (Jesse wanders into a nearby
Radio Shack, wanders out hurriedly).
In the big fun disaster, a woman I love
removes her purple hair strand by strand
and I frantically collect my clothing
for the well-hung delivery boy. Fred
Allen says that California is a fine
place to live if you happen to be an orange,
though Jesse doubts he's ever spent any time
in the Mojave, where oranges go to die.
A well-hung Jimmy Carter says,
who do they think they elected, Fred Allen?
In the big fun disaster, I lose my keys
on top of Nevada, break open my luggage
and sleep with a cat who wears a bra
and bites my feet throughout the night.
In the morning, I wake before you, and, like
a well-hung Jesse, leave without
saying goodbye. The coach of Team Lavender
draws up some type of brilliant
play that I can't read for the dust in my eyes.
I do not want to hurt her. She dresses
before the window, says something that someone
from Texas would say if that someone
were also alone and goose bumpy.
(Unlike Jesse, who runs into Peggy
of all people!) Right now, God
is covering the earth with carcasses. Look deep
into the dolphin's face at sunset and see
the orange and lavender rainbow of love, says
the coach of Team Lavender. In the big fun
disaster, I lay my love to forever rest
on the Long Beach Freeway. I am crying
at my desk, I am about to do something terrible.
I am an Albanian. I wrote this on my super
technologically advanced manual typewriter.
-Jason Bredle (42opus)