on the line. Into what, precisely, should
our flesh melt. Is there a pan to collect
the drippings? Should we add flour?
Or put the whole thing in the fridge
and wait for it to collect itself, yellow-
white masses to be skimmed off the top.
To be truthful -- or not to be, to be
precise -- I'm not sure I feel the fat
for melting off. I mean, I see well
enough, take shot after shot after
shot of myself in the plate glass
windows with red curtains in the hope
of removing the obvious. But that isn't
what he means, is it? I can tell
a hawk from a dove, a tired saw
from that which cuts to the bone.
It's the ideal that troubles me, this
sun-bleached dream of an inbetween
without impediment, pure flow. My own
middling world is not like that. There's
always something to resist, content
to consider. We're good, not because we
cut out what isn't, but because we
celebrate what is never going away, here
or beyond the gravy. We leave traces
of ourselves. Some would call them stains.
But I'd rather mark my place than pretend
I could describe a world without me.
So go ahead and borrow someone's body.
Lend your own out regardless
of cliché. Pull back the tip of your tongue
and make "d" out of "t" in that space
where the water suspends our
impurities in a medium past all clearing.
The flesh of the future is now. Touch it!