palo alto

Girl in red shorts and a messy tanktop pulled half over her

brushes the curtains apart,

gazes off at her kingdom,

Hellooooo, Palo Alto! My darlin’!

Her mom told us not to eat the ice cubes in the hotel

because they may have hepatitis,

but the pool water was so hot,

so we dropped a few in and

got down to salty, sunny skin.

Then we drank a bottle on the sidewalk and sang a little,

stumbled over words and woodchips, and I went to philosophy class,

where the professor needed help with his dissertation.

I had wet patches all over my shirt, and

I told him, Palo Alto tastes like raspberry vodka and brown sugar oatmeal.

He said, Is this possible? Is this desirous?

And I said, excessive intention and hyper-reflection are self-destructive. 

We left through the windows,

and after my rant about pyrrhonian skeptics,

she and I finished our oatmeal with our fingers.

We drew the solar system as a chain of islands that looks like Hawaii

and ate so much food we threw up on purpose.

We told each other we were in love,

and we shoplifted lip gloss.

Then she went home, and I flew to her a month later,

and everything was fine.