She's got a quick wit

and she writes poems about the bullshit

of the world. Light hearted

raps about rape and molestations

from the perspective

of a girl who's never left her mansion

in the Hollywood Hills. I bought her book

and read it over my thirty-minute coffee break.

Gimmicks to stomach the nostalgic time pieces

of illustrious actresses who think they know

the world. Who think that they've -at some point in their lives-

reached out and kissed bony fingers or dug their hands into the

cold earth. Birth words like an unfit mother. Suckle them

to breasts tattooed and pierced too hard in youth. Put her

near your train station and shut her up with pens and pencils.

Too quiet- how can you be a writer -too- quiet in the shadows.

I joke about it with Ian, while we improve the words to the

theme song on her cancelled television show. Whatever! It must

really blow to be her. Too beautiful. Too amazing. Too talented

to waste her life in glamour and existential whimsicality.

She's dating that weird looking boy -who's cheeks are too puffy to be real-

and she paints his portrait in her new book of poems

that I bought on sale for the holiday. Cheap thrills to chill me and my

none-fat-latte to the bone.

She's got a quick wit but her words are still bullshit.