|George Tooker self portrait|
as if God had unfriended you.
Just keep tying your sweater arms around your shoulders like that,
and the right man will come through.
Now let's talk about your barber.
Either grow it out or shave, but not this.
You're more Paris than Parris Island, and that fivehead, oh my.
So wrong. So remiss.
Get that shell. It's for you!
It's Clara Bow calling, she wants her lips back.
Here's a drapery, wrap it around that tree trunk as an ascot.
My lips are sealed;
I'm the very soul of tact.
For mag 289.