Before cultural deprivation exiles me to
a monastery of pout or petulance,
I must gird myself
for the spartan journey.
Fill the IPod with Shakira,
Fergie and Beiber downloads.
Burn “Ghostrider” to DVD.
Whisper serenity prayers for
Britney, and for Lindsey.
Clad myself in taupe capris and the
Lance Armstrong livestrong wristband.
nail Adam Lambert embroideries to my barn,
march for social justice in El Paso.
Am I not girded?
Am I not ready for embrace?
The mullet is secretly
preserved in a shoebox.
The gold navel chain in the attic.