Large warehouse. Empty parking lot. No access
other than melting through the wall at a spot
by the letters of a sign, “no entry”.
Tragically, it’s come to this, only freedom
with no subject besides soreness of skeleton,
only myopia in the dream of public snarkery
shoving us elections and consumer self-righteousness.
I’ve collapsed into rotation and am going about it
(operating a vehicle for example) the same way,
the way I shower clean and dress natty so
the first thing you notice is my cork shoes.
Tough job teaching a class of actors how to cry today.
Over at the Yankee Den, the ballerinas bake with Coke.
I’m swirling with all emotions and nobody’s parked outside
for miles of Joshua trees. It’s that simple to start.
Just fake it on. And here’s how to stop. Look in a mirror.