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American Royals

The dovetailing of

puritanical rigidity
and occult excellence

in pink bungalows
at the Beverly Hills Hotel.




In my dream I’m fucking
Jennifer Garner and
she’s the one who wanted me, she says
wow your eyes in this light
have specks of gold and there’s
green and I can see you and
you're beautiful.

She lives across the street, us
ignoring the adage
‘don’t get involved with your neighbors’
instead I leave a key under the wicker mat,
she comes in late and smoky eyed.

In my dream I’m begging
Jennifer Garner to
take me seriously, to date me,
she’s a little champagne drunk
it’s a little after midnight, she says
you don’t know what serious means,
I shouldn’t have come over.

My lawn is so lush,
the St. Augustine thriving under sprinklers
just like my gardener promised it would
and I cry standing at the bay windows,
looking across the freshly mowed expanse.

In my dream I’m kissing
Jennifer Garner and
she’s sleeping on the sand at the Cape,
wakes with a smile, she says
let’s go out for dinner
I love oysters and I want a martini,
later, I’ll want you in the cold surf.

On vacation she is withholding,
won’t tell me why she is angry then
suddenly not but I watch longingly as
she steps into a black cocktail dress, hold my breath
as she helps with my collar, it never sits flat,
her fingers are generous.

In my dream I’m chasing
Jennifer Garner to
the water’s edge in the absolute dark,
she has slipped off the dress,
she is sexy, swanning out into waves,
I can’t see her and call out, she says
it’s fine babe, come deeper
you know how to swim.



image: Laura Gill