Paper Heaven
Trying to break into Hollywood underneath
A vaudevillian sky:
All of the billboards are answering the cool shadows
Of housewives
Which roll off of their shoulders like cotton candy
Or angora sweaters:
And she still goes to work with my cousin:
She still gets up in the morning to
Paint those signs of blue berries and Indian
Corn:
But we don’t make love anymore: I just masturbate
And lie on the carpet with my dog
And look up into the ceiling fans and into that
Paper heaven where the airplanes of
My miss calibrated soul keep turning around and
Around.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
Added by Poetry Lover
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