Transformer 5

Pitting some insects in a fencing match,
you don’t need to put them in suits and can
forgo the gauze masks altogether –
their eyes already have that look
of suitors unflinchingly receiving a
stab in the eye with a pale, wispy beauty’s
silverware. Hate to say ‘I told you
so,’ but brain-repair often ties
you back to your authenticity.
So mea culpa and shit.
Watching your sperm compete in a long
streak of sunscreen, trailing a black shiny
ball all the way to your few standing
identical (multiple?) personalities, was not
the most un-you-like thing you could’ve done
in a bowling alley. In urinal-shaped underpants
of white and black Stormtrooper material –
thoughts going back to expired milk,
balanced on the welcome mat on
a small suburban house’s threshold,
in a bowling pin, you: taller than a building,
inside the dying bowling pin: a radioactive skeleton –
where’s your bicycle? Transformer
needed a bicycle. Transformer
became a bicycle, after trying ‘satellite
truck’ and ‘radio tower.’ Paddled
to the house as fast as Transformer could
but the milk expired en route anyways.
How to train your brain
to revert to a Rubik’s Cube fiddled
by different people with the most
forgiving view of you and not
jump up every time and shout:
‘I’ll have what that guy
over there with the napkin
peeling out of his collar
is having!’
Be original, Transformer. Be
yourself. Be so steady on your feet the
small green skeleton wouldn’t dance
and contaminate the milk and,
for God’s sake, turn the cap
straight on your head or don’t
wear one at all.