Tuesday, July 31, 2012

THE SHEET


The sheet marks by contact with other areas of the same sheet.
It is metamorphic not because it is sensitive or marks easily;
it just has that kind of peculiar irreversible elasticity.
It can be rolled into soulless barrels of cattle.
It can rear up at passing ankles in the anatomically correct guise
of Garfield. Or a battle mech.
I am highly suspicious of it.
The sheet crystallizes when I pour Kool-Aid over it, the latter
slaloming through cartilaginous termite mounds sprouting up all over.
The sheet has begun to talk to itself. Muttering something about being hungry.
I give it a burger. I hold the burger in my hand a while.
I am so aware of the sheet's focus on the burger. If I were to stretch
the sheet and bring a scalpel to it, would it noisily ricochet
against my hand? I turn my head and follow its gaze back to where
the sheet is identifying something other than a burger, something
devoid of movement, even in my shaking hand. But it is a burger.

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