Frida (or how to find St. Louis)

Why the rush toward definition?
Tonight I should take it easy,
at least that is what Steve has been saying.
I've been making faces at myself
in the grey-black blank television screen,
my head seems so big and
I begin slowly to think of
a beach somewhere I've never been
where I can hear the calm roll over
this columna de mi espalda,
where my tongue would massage this air into
a gambit that could end the game at the start,
and in this screen I am painted well
full with monobrow, and my statement
tells of a more full story,
full enough that I could take flight,
and be there for the making
of divots in a different land,
and not just waiting on another
arrival, revival or resurrection,
that will make my lonely divot
a little less so.