All the people in the small bedroom community of
plumes of dollheads
lying in little piles of live colon contrivances
Would you close my email program there? I’m always leaving them lying around,
immodestly open. As penance, I slather myself with sweet gum and wax
all my sins away. As goes my colon, so goes everything else.
the messiness, the chase, the apathy, the bedroom.
Clean the wax from my ears and hear the typing away of ownership.
My colon is the task facing the community bedroom of Modest.
A child walks past, gum-chewing, plucking dollheads, heading for periods and
nightmares. Densely, gently, the chase begins in the forest of black and spindly whites.
If I’ve seen one pair of spindly whites, I’ve seen ‘em all. It’s the hairlessness that gets
me, though. Many times, I’ve entered a room and started a conversation and gone on
talking for while before realizing…..
The E male types, “it’s a modest community, colon,
but at least its nightmares are white and clean.” The
voice rendition program writes “written spleen.”
The embarrassed ones, they just run away,
and all those plucked heads vying to come along
Not in my nightmares, certainly—but rather planted,
white and gently spindled in my colon.