What's Your Sign?
Mine's ibis, mine's three strikes, mine's the
turtle on its back, crenellated and fuchsia, mine's the book swung
open, sexual in its promise of knowledge.
Here's the thing about an open book: left open, the ink will fade
as the sun reads it and reads it and assumes because it's read it
so many times over that everyone else must've as well, so it lifts
words from the page, a butcher slicing only a thin layer atop. Let us,
as a people, blame the sun. Let us be brave enough to keep the skin that
peels away from exposure, build children, build sandcastles, never leave
them unattended at high tide.
Mine's syllabic, mine's alto. Mine's No Dogs. Mine's
jigsaw, deer, mine's ampersand.
Water is the new sex, I'm told. Cola the new Coke, or the old one,
rather, old the new new. Etcetera, etc. The ampersand disbanded, &c.
transmogrified finally into three discrete markings, same change that
shook a limb off Generation X, the vestigial tail fallen off then
brought back out for a farce, jokes explained in the appendix.
Millennial love a reference we get, that isn't so complex as all
else, that isn't shaking with forewarning of disruption, war,
collapse. Mine's slingshot, mine's eye-well, canary.
The revolution that created me, that eats its own tail--what am I if not
a disturbance in the ether? My existence: objective, my atoms are blips,
checkmarks in the Great Summation, echoing: I am as those who made me,
who I make again
. My shadow: Ibid.
Mine's abacus. Mine's cross. Mine's joke.
The hollowed chasm covered by the joke, a suspicious cover of leaves.
Here's a joke for you: What has two legs and doesn't finish
what it starts?