“I am a master of hallucination.”
I will not think about my retirement account. I will rest inside a concession stand of white gauze, sun hot. I will ask for water loaded with chunks of ice as a pinball machine rises from Poseidon’s eyebrow. I swallow chrome balls like egg yolks slipped into a swimming pool of cake batter. Lights flash. The machine will tilt. Or maybe it will be cold and drizzly.
I will not think about being late for zumba and the hip-hop music that sings over the speakers about my Sexy Body. I move my toe to the rhythm of the kitchen clock and realize it speaks Swahili. Each tick repeats a sound: marehemu, marehemu. Felix the Cat stands at the center of the kitchen clock with hands outstretched for donations.
I will not think if my heels are rough against my bedcovers, nor will I be bothered by callouses or bunions that stick out like unwanted children. Instead, I will stare at the tattoo on the base of my foot, remember what transpired as I lay on a padded table surrounded by ink roses that climbed higher than I could ever dream.
I will not think if I need to go shopping. I will never need to visit the squat aisles of desire again. What I want is to move my thigh against your thigh, and then my left leg, and then my right leg. Water meanders down my spine. A flight of white pigeons thunders across my mind.
I will no longer think about remembering my passwords or where they are stored, lost the abracadabra consisting of eight digits, a combination of numbers and letters, upper and lower case and containing one symbol. I want an ampersand. I have lost my vowels. No more unique passwords except for the skeleton key that opens all passage ways in a shudder of shoes.
I will not think if I can do the electric slide.
I will not think about dying.