from Bombyonder
Without an imaginary world, without a proper backpack, without my little pink orb,
without an old tablet’s commandments, without a hair dryer, empty hands, empty
birdcage obscured by a crate of empties.
Left without a predictable choice, without direct involvement, without being wiser, left
without leave, left what I came with, left with myself.
Squawkless, peepless, no doubt brandless.
Nothing happening, nothing I wanted, nothing needed, nothing harmed any more than it
already had, nothing like a vacation to the bottom and getting fogburned.
Discriminatory questions as I pass through the hole, am I this or am I that, would I say
this or would I say that, if I could be any monster, which one would I be?
There could have been a lollipop garden for me on the other side or a newly shined
guillotine.
I could have an army of bridesmaids wielding shields of bananas, enjoying my pillage.
If you pencil them in, they will come.
In some unpleasant, uncalculated fashion.
