This room is a network of floaters and I’m reading how
cartography is possibly as melancholic as non-sequiturs.
Do I dare adjust myself?
No, don’t move.
Sometimes the gentlest breeze upon the lobe of my ear,
originating from my very own breath. Neither rustle
nor whir, but yet: undeniable.
I breathe. I perceive.
Ordinarily, being in love slackens my discipline.
And improper procedures invigorate to the max.
But nothing beats sitting stone still. Move a muscle
and it’s easy to find the right pill.
Whatever the case, my attention goes elsewhere, as usual.
This time to the floaters in my living room (which make a
fetching wallpaper). Dare I share?
For years I was the significant somebody I thought I was.
Then, out of nowhere, I suddenly realize I’m significantly
somebody else. It’s a wonder confusion doesn’t linger, but
this goes on for quite some time until – BOOM! – what a
shame to wake up one bright morning to find that I was
wrong all along. Then it’s November.
How long have I been saying this? And how long,
you might ask, has my wallpaper been screaming
I wanna be a serious conversation at me?
Over and over and over, Rover!
But I stay still and silent, a cluster-fuck of complacent decades
(with a surplus of sterling medication). I am as excellent in
tangent as I am in transit. Movement always turns me on. I’m
that sensitive. Which is why I’ve been brutally intransigent for
years now, sitting here on this very couch,
The body is a wasteland. It’s never what you want it to be.
I say be done with it. Donate it to those in need.*
Right now I’m floating over the Himalayas. It’s stunning, really.
I’m as carnal as I’ve ever been and you can’t even be me.
*Sometimes Michelle Pfeiffer borrows mine.