I am nailing my theses
to the church door of you.
The ashes on your face remain
like unstamped letters, waiting.
sitting on your lap watching your eyes
follow the bouncing basketball
and my heart was a hundred basketballs
dribbling mad love for your arms
I’m building a life-size model of myself. We’ll need masking tape,
popsicle sticks, and hurt. I’m a man of many layers. Most of which can be
made with arts & crafts materials; most layers are also scarred.
Depending on the looks of the customer, I pop unchewed scraps into my mouth en route to the dishwasher. There’s no guideline for assessing what’s edible—it’s a gut feeling, depends on arbitrary factors, like dirt under fingernails or toes too long for sandals. The latter, especially.
Back at cubicle, three screens and a phone vying for attention. Not even a full cubicle, an entire floor of waist-high cubicles stretching into infinity. Like the desert – nowhere civilized to rest the eyes unless on a passing ass or lipstick-and-mascara-daubed face three rows over, or two, or four. Wasteland of distractions.