about the author

Mary Hamilton is an optician and writer living in Los Angeles.

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I’ve got a quarter for the jukebox.
Play me a slow dance song.

Mary Hamilton

Hear that tune? That’s an ice cream truck. Hear that tune? That’s me singing to you in the shower and you’re brushing your teeth and I like it when you scrub that toothbrush on your tongue like you’re trying to get the taste of me out your mouth and I wait till you’re done with your flossing and you’ve spit Listerine all over the sink and faucet. I wait till you’re done with all that hygiene and I jump right out the shower and I stick my tongue in your face and you lick it like an ice cream cone.

Hear that tune? That’s a cat scratch. Hear that tune? That’s a ring pop. Hear that tune? That’s bird wings flapping. Big feathers pounding the sides of your body. That’s a pretty bird. That’s a white dove. You’re my white dove. You’re my bald eagle. You’re my Albatross. You’re flying and you won’t come down no matter how I call. No matter how high I climb. No matter the whistle I blow. Hear that tune? That’s a shotgun. Hear that tune? That’s a taxidermist. Hear that tune? That’s a nail hitting a wall. That’s a branch breaking. That’s a bird’s beak going in my side.

You’re very attractive in dark light. No light. You’re very attractive in space flight. Let’s pretend we’re astronauts. Let’s pretend we’re aliens. Let’s pretend we’re comet tails letting go pieces of us together. You’re very attractive in space light. Sun light and dark shadows. Saturn rings and star clouds. Let’s play hide and go seek. Let’s break into a space ship. Let’s sleep for a hundred years in space pods. Take off your shirt. Take off your pants. Get in your space pod. Get in your sleep nook. Get in your dream place. You want me to call you Ripley and I will, but only if you make room for me in your pocket. The one in your pants.

I’m your baby. I’m inside your belly. I’m sleeping tight. I’m feeling good. I’m feeling well. I’m in your belly. I want out. I wanna see light again. It’s hot in here. I’m in your belly. I’m bursting out. I’m like that alien in Aliens. No, I’m like that alien in Spaceballs. The one with the top hat and the cane. I’m singing a song. I’m leaving my Coney Island Baby. I’m taking this show on the road.

Hear that tune? That’s tire wheels scrambling. Hear that tune? That’s fuzzy dice dangling. Hear that tune? That’s a rearview mirror being turned around. Hear that tune? That’s a map page turning. Go to the coast. Go for a swim. Don’t wear nothin. Swim in the nude. Feel the water. Feel the waves. It’s salt water. Don’t drink it ‘less you wanna sick. Don’t drink it ‘less you wanna swell up fat. Go to sleep. Float up. Grow wings. Get to be an angel. Get to be in Heaven. Get to be looking down. Watching me watching you. I’m standing still. I’m looking up to the sky. Pointing at the clouds. Pointing at your flapping wings. Twirling my arm in stupid circles.

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