Dancing Myself Clean

 

Wild grief sinks

Like those bronze Stalin statues

That stood in my backyard

 

Or museums on mountain peaks

With karma temples in their eyes.

 

Tripping down macaroni aisles

My elbows are peeling like a cheese grater

That melts into my drifting thumbprints

Because my passport is flapping with its toasted wings

Drowsy, but still clapping like Kraftwerk

Or like Bowie,

 

Or like my mistress

Who sets afire my origami mornings;

My windows shall shred the waves

Of miracle television channels

And dry wall musicals.

 

Whistling on our farm, we planted papaya seeds

As we shivered like shellfish in the dusty winter.

Turn the thermometer upside down because

This ice tickles me.

 

Shaped like a star, dancing like a messiah,

I wish you could kiss me.

Then my belt becomes licorice.

Then my screaming ordained minister stays glowing.

 

Jason Chen is a contributor to The Weekender. Contact him at [email protected]