Neon-yellow I walk, a balloon animal filled with disgusted Jell-o,
into the kind of room I, immediately squeaking, wish I hadn’t. They all bird me, till quivering I break shape
and wind of already broken bone and bust like blushing flesh over the hardwood
corset of the floor. Curving their
beaks, so to speak, they collect, carefully careless, my scraps into plastic
greetings sticky with the greasy rubber of their too-handled and muggingly
caffeinated opinions. Then I see myself
wirelessly wired and puppeted into a cloud, a gray glaucoma, screened like a
film over the high-branched projecting nests of their bosomingly-blossoming
vexingly convexing eyes.
Where will I go now?
Into what skinned mirror treasured in a judgmental chest find peace
& all the rest?
Artificially nervous, I can’t think without some twisted
artifice to twine my animal around, snug as a veined snail in the quilted-vine
hell of his familial trust-trussed shell. It’s not
that I wish I hadn’t come here—here to this dorky party of Twister, fashionably
dainty cakes and even daintier handshakes, here to this dorky party of Twister
to get all bent out of shape—but that I wish I could mold myself to myself, and
cover myself, spreading like
an adaptably viral rug, parasitically uncritical,
all over,
till from humble pseudo-fungal beginnings,
I become the shower curtain I grew on,
the moldy black curtain of the curtain
which can never be withdrawn
to screen the clean staging of being alone—
me the video nasty everyone, seemingly English, already
owns.
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