There's a hole in the wall.
There's the air conditioning going haywire.
There's an ice cream cone infested by ants.
There's a dog convulsing on the street.
There's a bead of sweat that got in my eye.
This is the heat that gets worse with time.
Had there been a way to fix the hole in the wall,
we would've sealed the aperture before,
which proves there's nothing to do — carry on.
A hand comes.
Why is it that our reflection in the water
decides to distort and flicker into nothingness?
Where did you go? Where is my shadow?
My foil I cannot find, how can I see you?
Where did you go? Where did you go?
I've been standing for hours now, reflection.
Come back.
(The hole in the wall is growing bigger,
cracking hysteria in the wallpaper.
You and I and I and we and us and you,
oh dear oh dear god god god.)
Like a knockoff iPhone in a panhandler's hands
I'm worth nothing at the end of the day —
but man, am I a flashy tool. Tools are neutral.
A hammer can be used to build a house
or bash someone's head in.
I give the woman twenty dollars for her time
She demands thirty.
I give forty. Gnight darlin. Gnight. Night.
And so the cycle of the time completes.
Who is the monster that holds a loaded gun
at Gaia's head, forcing her to read from a script?
I wave my sign among the crowd.
"YOU NEED JESUS IN YOUR LIFE HE SAVES YOU."
Am I the only sane one here? I see the
flash of light above. Is that a plane? No.
It's a hand. A hand reaching for us
(or perhaps someone else's hand).
When the sky opens and when it punches
it'll be a sequel to the Big Bang.
(In the end we are all the same being
with a split consciousness among bodies —
but not for long.)
YOU ARE READING
Readymade
PoetryA collection of observations, notes and scraps from the oddest corners of my cranium.
