What looks like a compass, round and green,
doddering and spinning in the hollow of a slimy watermelon -
set in the crook of the handlebars – what can only be
the mucus membrane of my BMX.
Then I fell hard – a baby forever crawling toward the sign of
a precipitous drain in the non-diary rug. Meat thermometers
choose the most popular waistlines. Splashing yellow powder on
the wireless connection with your ventriloquist dummy.
Then I fell through.
Both the werewolf's Achilles Heels are hinges stolen from
a mechanism that neatly folds straight jackets. Let
loose in a chicken coop revamped as a Nando's.
I spent my teenage years with an irrational fear of the attachments
I feared missing from the matchboxes in my grandfather's tobacco cabinet.
Sawed my mother's swimwear into six knurled coneheads.
Child of the something that resurfaces in the eye
and crawls down the chimera of a photographed and framed vintage
volleyball team – of which my sister was the captain.
Something that needs promptly to be refrigerated.
Something that goes bad pretty quickly.
The high static of the volleyball, on the beach, incorporates
everything redundant. Including praise.