Sometimes the body feels too fleshy,
repulsive and the layering excessive
and feels like swelling-
Other times, my own sharp cheekbones
jab these bulbous thoughts
with sharp words, as in No More,
and I try to swallow them
before they creep out any further
or scrape my pink warm flesh deeper.
Nothing is mine anyway. These hairs grow,
out of my control, these moles do something,
the fingers I stole from my mother.
The time is not mine, not even this one.
The body refuses to cooperate with a grander vision,
without blurring the edges and intruding on space.
My left justifies my right and intentions are made up,
despite knowing that I knew this before the fingers did,
the neuron that jumped at the thought which took credit.
Resistance holds our places in equipoise,
it's nothing to do with style,
just keeping things in place, in check,
afloat in my theoretical state of chaotic
reassembly with additional small parts
never mentioned.
Feel this sitzfleish,
like chain mail
awaiting my reply.
Painting By Daniel Hernández Morillo (Salcabamba, 1856 - Lima, 1932) – painter (Peruvian) Born in Salcabamba, Huancavelica. Dead in Lima. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
