I am Carpet in a Carpet Store

25 Feb

cultivate

having never been convinced spies exist whether in water
or in my toaster—butter-melting bugs from Langley;
they might be actors,
they might be trashmen or a photogenic species created and medicated
for espionage-themed parties, cocktails no one drinks—

(my suspicion began during a fat phase in 3rd grade
when Clarissa dumped me and I cried in the bathroom and Mrs. Reitzwig
had to call my name from the hallway like a stricken, furious
mall-worn mother, voiced by sandpaper and skin designed
to look like chunky peanut butter)

—such theories manifest themselves across the board, like
chalk dust eraser marks, all geometric riddles,
all wingspans,
all yardsticks,
all 100-meter dashes,
all the ones I never won due to a low tolerance
for pain, a high palate and narrow nose

as a result I became one who believes his life is not worth photographing, his friends those who find him and his life not quite fascinating enough to capture.
like a funny fish. unlike underfed immigrants—
propped upon one another like jokes in a bad stand-up routine.
unlike buoyant jelly beans.

uniqueness, for lack of a better word, is that which is,
for lack of another word,
lacking. like that poem that says “I am the manhole in a black road,”
but were it me, would’ve said “I am the unnoticeable bit of road
beside the manhole”—unmarked, and patched often. I am
the background swatch of a still life in an amateur’s studio, which doubles

as a sewing room for her daughter’s daughter’s friend, Elisabeth.
I am, perhaps, the angel who obeys and does not question. Or grapefruit
picked by indiscriminate hands, for factory canning in Mexico. I am autism
without the serious defects, discomfort without source or acute pain.
Without cause or effect.

the voice that causes no one to turn. that color suburban homeowners
paint their family rooms to match everything. the sock left in the dryer in
the laundromat then thrown onto the growing, lumpy mountain of forgotten cotton. the dog so pleasant-faced he’s overlooked and left in the pound.

When I lie down I am a country road undriven, gravel worn
only by wind and rain and Spring-time run-off, the occasional county vehicle.
in result of this curious, infinite limbo—this nonplace—I find voices of the head
to be exaggerative,
tales of heroism poorly written fiction,
spies,

dinosaurs. show me all the bones you want. I am unimpressed.

2 Responses to “I am Carpet in a Carpet Store”

  1. Tyler R February 26, 2009 at 12:24 am #

    I Love this one. I really really love it.

  2. Mike March 1, 2009 at 2:49 pm #

    Just passing by.Btw, your website have great content!

    _________________________________
    Making Money $150 An Hour

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