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]