My personal trainer took off the stylish scarf
that he wore everyday – a trademark really, an item found invariably
in caricatures of him – and revealed a horoscope writer
who had hung himself a thousand times.
Now, this was an impersonation of his fate tackily written
but unavoided. No, it's not farfetched, nor overly insensitive, to say
that removing the scarf and seeing his self-styled horoscope
on his neck – seeing those hang-marks –
was a bad tattoo in retrospect.
How fake would such a personal trainer
need to be to be
so optimistic and
devil-may-care? Horoscope fake, that's how fake.
There's actually no good reason for the ten-minute gaps
in the radio personality's evening shows – apart
from the fact that these spaces are meant
to be filled by some fantastic, ecstasy-fueled verbiage
his dachshund, sitting on his lap, is urged
to blither into the microphone.
Of course its silence is lurid testimony to its muteness.
From the tension he obtained such beautiful half-moon cuticles,
effected somehow with a Donald Duck-handled screwdriver,
but the ends of his chewed fingers
looked like sunset swamps.
The technician on the other side of the glass
became dishabille in a way
that lifting one's head and espying him, or bumping into him
in the corridor, was like getting anthrax in the mail.
In terms of appearance, cold silence or crackling anticipation
does something to one's nipples:
the nipple dome tautology, it's called.
Because that's exactly what it is. A thing atop a thing.
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