The Bread We Eat in Dreams

until it shatters.

I guess what I mean to say is

I’ll never have kids. Chances for promotion

are minimal and my pension

sucks. That’s ok.

After all, there is so much work

to do. Enough for forever.

And I’m so good at it.

All my sitreps shine

like so many platinum dolls.

I’m due for a morphomod soon—

I’ll be able to double over at the waist

like I’ve had something cut out of me

and fold up into a magentanosed Centauri-capable spaceship.

So I’ve got that going for me.

At least fatigue isn’t a factor. I have a steady

decalescent greengolden stream

of sourshimmer stimulants

available at the balling of my toes.

On balance, to pay for the rest

well

you’ve never felt anything

like a pearlypink ball of plasmid clingflame

releasing from your mouth

like a burst of song.

And Y Prefecture

is just so close by.

The girls and I talk.

We say:

start a dream journal.