I’ve expanded past my station, baffled by
ineptitude, reaching for stars torn open like
a stoma. You, mesmerized by materializing
twisters, tell me this is how it begins.
First, the frontier, bereft of cattlemen amidst
a surge of copper mines. Second, fluorescent
petals of hollyhocks adrift in the skirt of pride.
You despise artificial love, but I’d walk on
my back if that would make you happy.
I found paradise in a mollusk 450 million years
in the making; an ambulance found me speaking
in tongues at the intersection of Mad Street and
Crazy Lane. Eventually, I’ll understand why I
glued a mirror to my face.
My heart, lost in the cornice of my chest for days,
pumped blood through the wrong channels,
confusing my liver. It didn’t know what it stood
for anymore. I felt it secreting enzymes the spleen
worked so hard to develop. I grew weak.
One evening in the spy house, I was robust again,
every move captured in Kodachrome, Technicolor
for the higher ups. Someday, I’ll release myself
in a copper mine, helix in the glow of conformity,
a curved stiff awakened in a promising world.