Rod vs. Orb
The greatest thing about being human is not being a ball.
As I got older I agreed more and more with that
and spent ten minutes every morning body brushing.
You have to loosen the lymphatic waters, open up
all the cells like young virgins and make sure they are not afraid
of how much it will hurt.
It's true I've been won over by the kind of dissolution
turpentine brings, but I'm not all erased.
Don't worry, the day I need to paste, I'll paste.
I still get those bad dreams, no matter how raw I rub.
Where, in a corner of a nightclub, a ball comes up to me
like a mean, metalhead ball, in an angry way, jealous
of my so many bones. It whispers fiercely in my ear:
"Calm and quiet! Shut up or I'll cut you!"
When I wake up I reach for the turpentine though I know I shouldn't.
I have to stop wiping away at myself.
But just because I flake off alone in the bed
doesn't mean I can't reconstitute.
I'm getting more powerful, but also more desperate.
A kind of folk shameless self-confidence washes over me.
Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and say
"I am here because I come."
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