Casey Johnson 1979 – 2010
If I’m a bridge I’m a bridge of diamonds in continuous motion, a bridge of diamonds in the shape of a best friend. I bridge two ideas like the idea of a Cambodian daughter and the idea of Marilyn Monroe. There are rules to this. I flash my dimple to compensate for my languishing tiger eyes my eyes cold as canary diamonds and my hidden fangs. Within my dimple is 1 long secret fang pointing straight at my pancreas. I want to tell you how to talk to your child about diabetes and when I call you on the phone I want you to pick up. I want Milla Jovovich to tell me I’m an It Girl. We are going to a wonderful new lounge. I could take you there if you would just. I want to hear you say my name, weave my name in your double kiss, tape my name with the wristband and let me in. When Nicky lends me her Louis Vuitton clutch I sign for it in blood. This is a transaction, my blood for the purse and your purse for my daughter. I am not a bridge I am a Band-Aid, I am the Band-Aid Heiress, I am pink and supple and you need me when you’ve made a mistake. I have never made a mistake, I have never worn stockings in winter, not once, never. I have never begged like a petstore puppy for you to pick me up. In California I collect chihuahuas German Shepherds and daughters. I yank a curtain of lavender and bougainvillea over the 100-lensed Argus hiding in the bushes across the street. Tila as Hermes, here to help me, here to get my dog, here to cry as TMZ cameras extend their long dripping tongues to lick the tears that are their power source. Who needs power when it’s so cozy here in the dark and so calm. I wonder what kind of car we should get next.
I have a daughter so it should have
four
doors
at least
