rhapsody ninja star

of david

 

as a child, the lyrics

to rock-a-bye baby,

made me

uncomfortable.

someone presses

my apartment door

buzzer and i want

to ask my mother to

stop singing that

song. i can see my

breath and i do not

answer. instead, i

question existence

like the grand

inquisitor.

existence however,

does not kiss me

on the lips. it

roofies my whiskey

and DFSAs me like

a politician at

bohemian grove.

and then, the

buzzer becomes a

knocker and my

brow crumples like

loose-leaf paper

under the hands of

an angry writer,

tossed over the

shoulder to land

into or around the

proverbial

wastebasket of

what it is we are

up to, really. and

again i remain

inert, merge into

the sofa like the

swamp thing into

the green, extend

my fibers through

the carpet,

become blanket

and curtains and

afghan. i chew

my beard and

bide my time

when the

knocker

becomes an

intruder and my

bullshit door gets

blown in from

brown paper bag  

hinges. my wolf

through waiting,

it appears to be a

better me from

the future.

i blink and he

karate chops me

so hard, i shit my

pants. i tell him, if

he kills himself in

the past, he’ll

cease to exist in

the future. he

belly laughs and

then it’s like

dinner with dr. no.

he explains that

he’s not from the

future, but rather

an alternate

dimension of the

multiverse in

which he is

enslaved to an

insane and

alien race on an

irradiated earth,

left barren and

barely alive,

suspended in the

perpetual winter of

nuclear holocaust.

his aim is to

murder and

replace me, to

enjoy the spoils

of the good life

which has left me

so soft and docile. 

while he does this,

i think about

thanos and

his quest,

having a drink and

a handful of raisins.

i bid he indulge me

before carrying his

nefarious plan to its

heinous conclusion,

he agrees to do so.

we drink whiskey

and waters, smoke

copious amounts

of dope, make out

on the couch.

then, he grabs

me by the throat

and pulls my

head off my body,

spinal cord

attached, à la sub

zero in mortal

kombat, has

himself a cigarette,

and

writes this poem.