The biggest rose on the Filippo Berio
olive oil has a face in it, mangled
and bandaged. Sometimes when I open
both mind and cabinet, that squint-eye
nails me. They are here. Watch us dispense
vulgarities of propriety. "Smile!" Toss
the Caesar salad. High heels gouge the floor.
They are toasting, throwing
their made-up heads back.
They are putting with imaginary clubs.
I'm with the trash, where it came from,
where it's trucked to, my head
full of burial, incineration. (Please.
Not now. Not that far away.) "Thank you
so much for the gift!"
"Are there any more olives?!"
I've returned to affairs of squirming
repercussions, seen animals cringe
in cut diamonds. "Who?"
"She looks good." "You having
a good time?" [Urbane. Reign.]
"So what are you doing?" [Don’t
say: lately I buy less and less
of everything and thus have no
profession. My resume says:
all jobs are acting jobs. I fade in
the eyes of all capital. (Meet the enemy.)]
[Don’t say: let me introduce you
to the end.] There is a depth to loneliness,
way in past not fitting in: even
when I point the squint-eye out, when
I trace each feature with my finger,
they don't see—it's still just a rose to them
and that's what scares me.