He had a haircut that was an idea,
And parked in front of a fire hydrant.
I didn’t use gloves when I made his sandwich,
And I didn’t try to not stare at his processed bosom.
His manicured and feminine body language
Ghoulishly masked an unaware, negligent, and complex cruelty.
Impermeably more self-conscious than self-aware,
I was a minor character in a story more complicated than interesting.
He touched his face, removed the longer side of his hair from his face,
Spinning like an egg in a spoon on the tightrope of manly boundaries,
Of playing dress up and boy soldier and grown-up and house and God:
Complicated like a modernist poet making a grocery list for a Disciple
That’s really just a gopher, but desperately needs to inflate his errand
To justify the lost time also called a “commitment.”
But I don’t need to justify the commitment.
CERTAINLY not for $8 an hour
Pretending I’m sad God’s dead
But employed to keep burying
And burying like a ditto-sheet
Degrading Toil into busy-work
Because I’m not scared to
Go live in the woods
Under the bridge
Eat the bugs
And then blow my brains
Out my own insane &
Where human dignity
Is tangible in rhetoric
And can be used in an
Argument that’s a line
Of logic in a discussion
As not a hopelessly big