Here we are, all gathered together, in this big ass basket. Climbing and crawling like a quivering shaker jar filled with pickled peppers, carrot coins and eggs that are half-made, one part vinegar–the other part: consciousness. Pointless. Oblong. Nearly inanimate–embryonicwrithings to rhythms caused by indivisible gravities. Invisible fingers picking and plucking us out. Carving out bits, perhaps, replacing us. Side by side, we are: together.
The egg that I am facing has been wearing his tuxedo for some time now. I look down–pickled ball gown growing grossly longer and embalmier by the hour–like as though it were my hair–releasing–from this entombment
Of flesh that is me: the empirical mausoleum. As are you, my nearly inanimate love. Affair. Phantom.
Egg.
I don’t want to live in a basket.
So, I say: let’s grow out
A spinal column, some appendages, perhaps–a hand.
To take mine, which could be yours–but not like this… I think. I want legs, to climb and dance. I need my voice to sing. Interlocking feet and arms could provide lasting love embraces.
Asking the grave which once held my heart:
What on earth as it is in heaven–could be sacred about MySpace weddings?
