Saturday, July 30, 2011

Cereal Anxiety (or the discharge of matter)

he carries the remote in his back pocket
as if it is a tool of his own mischief, of his own deviant nature.
an endless universe not expanding, not numbered,
not random.
he feels as though
he enters a circus made in heaven;
he can do anything.
he is afraid clowns will eat him.

he sits legs crossed, back straight, hair split
a fixed position, a fixed gaze
cutting emptiness, cutting darkness,
cuts predestined
presupposed, preoccupied;
he asserts attention, unordered
unidentified, unnamed.

he is transfixed by a tarnished pocket watch that sways,
the back and forth of time, a piece of time
passing through space.

the lunatic, the non-believer, the hypnotist, the devil himself!
and he the man in the mirror, clearly lost in his trance,
anxiety to stay crunchy.
clearly a madman, inaudible defiant,
indecipherable interruptions, fake concerns
told by a bottom buttoner who wets whistles, that twice a week
a bowl of cereal would talk to a call girl, it says,
stay crunchy.
cereal with anxiety.
cereal with anxiety afraid clowns will eat it.

he is told to go inside by an outer voice.
he waits absently in a hallway,
stretching skin over his head like a kettle drum,
pacing round like a clock hand,
the devil knows how much time he spends.
a devil in the mirror.
twirling his curls tighter than circus wire
a toaster teases the bath water,
taking center madness,
a ringmaster holds a gun to his ear,
tonight’s show--
the discharging of brain matter to uproarious
applause & mindless smoke.

- B. Medeiros

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