Cancel My Tarot Card Reading

I love postures just like anyone else,
but I hate the feckless choreography of casual 
lurking. I always exercise the best reflection
in my gratitude journal stashed in an unnamed
country house in the Hudson Valley. 
Bicoastal dashing is as taxing as reporting 
a classmate who transferred to Kent.   
He still asks for citrus recommendations. 
Fine: Tangerines make terrible substitutions 
for modeling attachment styles. 
I don’t know what to tell him. 
Everyone can’t get front row seats 
to the chimera event in Calabasas, including
present company. My invitation must 
have gotten lost in the mezzanine of meta.  
There’s no alignment anymore, so what. 
The green pinhole flicks like dull magic, 
and we spend days crying for clout.
I will now witness the end of cinema.   
I wish crocodiles would officially trend. 
That is my official invitation for nature 
to heal itself back to pandemonium. I 
pretend to have dinner with Philip Larkin. 
It lasts until 3 AM because we are screaming.
No wonder therapists love us conditionally.  
If I am still pretending, then it must be four. 
There comes a time where I dare to encounter
a Hemsworth cousin. Thank the goddess!
Australia could be everywhere. 

SPENCER HAWTHORNE

Spencer Silverthorne is a poet from the two-worded West Chester in PA. His work can be found in Black Warrior Review, The Decadent Review, Gigantic Sequins, Hobart, Variant Literature, and other publications. He is also the Poetry Editor at Rougarou. He is currently a PhD candidate at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette.