This Is Where I Live, This Is How I Am Unable

put on the last suit you’ll ever wear.  conform to the identity they give you.  you will not stand out in any way.  you don’t exist.  you weren’t even born.  you’re them, now.  they’re them, too.

there is a cat in a bag eating bugs.  there is a bug man with a moustache carrying the cat in the bag.  you are the bug man’s moustache.  there is different bug inside the man.  the bug is driving the man.  you, the moustache, drives the man’s car – a ford p.o.s.  you crash it. you all crash.  you’re always crashing.

there is a diner. outside the diner is a cab.  there is a giant man.  there is a bald man digging holes – graves – inside the sidewalk.  the giant man is eating popcorn. the bald man is drinking sea water in the bottoms of his holes.  in the diner, there is a dead man on a shelf. you fold dead man. you collapse the dead man’s body.  you make human origami.

a lady gives birth on the NJ turnpike.  you are her premature baby.  smokestacks are the first sight you see. you scream.  you see octopus tentacles wrap around the world trade center.  slime slimes the turnpike.  slime slimes grown men’s blazers and briefcases and supermarket tabloids and the airplanes containing them.

medicine dissolves inside your thyroid inside your body.  your body is inside a renaissance fair.  fair is inside a city you thought you’d never visit.  a night, there is a knight in a pirate hat wearing oven mitts teaching your child to use a toilet.  you breathe them both.  your thyroid thinks it might explode.

there is a lazy boy recliner that looks nothing like a lazy boy recliner. beneath the cushion are forks from chinese takeouts.  you sit. you sleep.  you sweat through the cushion. the lazy boy prays.  it asks god it if it has just been baptized.

abraham lincoln – fuck him. he hides. he’s hiding in a farmhouse with a redheaded woman that’s not his wife. they’re drinking vodka and lemonade.  they’re wearing Target-brand tank tops . abraham lincoln looks at wall. there is a bass taxidermy on the wall. abraham lincoln feels like bass taxidermy.  abraham lincoln feels like soup. abraham lincoln wishes he had the power to erase his own memories. abraham lincoln thinks, i never appreciated abraham lincoln, anyways.

there are bugs in cement on manhattan island. the bugs burrow through floors of crematoriums on the lower east side.  their bug bodies warm converse sneakers tied to cold human bodies. the bug bodies disappear with the converse sneakers.  two weeks later, the bugs reappear in on the set of a popular family sitcom.  the bugs chew the cast members. the bugs chew holes through my television screens.  the bugs taste me into tiny pieces.  their jaws make my eardrums tickle.  i cough with whatever instinct i have left that keeps me from remaining human.

by Adam Moorad

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