Today, I’m assimilating like margarine
into hotcakes. I’m getting down
like Danny LaRusso after the against-
the-rules leg sweep. So low,
I’ll be a flower in common decency’s
lapel. Factual, the same way “Zanzibar”
means sea of blacks to anyone who isn’t
from there. Where is Juan Valdez,
his burroesque dependability when
you need him? I had a friend who minted
t-shirts with Juan front and center,
an afro instead of a sombrero, a power
fist instead of a smile. The inscription:
100% Colombian. I’m going the way
of skin—radio waves, thoughts
like ear-to-ear transmissions grounded
into the ozone on the way from mindless
space to forgetful Earth. Man, my skin
doesn’t need me any more than mold
needs cheese. On this day of cellophane
lunchboxes and hand grenades reshaping
my palms into their own militaristic orbit,
there are only oceans to catch me.
On this day, something needs
to catalogue me: a hall monitor
doubled wide by ambition,
a goldfish with thumbs hitchhiking
toward a fishbowl full of dub.
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