Ah my oddment, my life sentence,
my spool. How you noodle
and unrevel me when you get
out of hand! The butterflies
in my stomach must be searching
for their missing mouthparts.
(Let them eat ache.)
The insecurity screeners
at the airport made me prove
I could turn you on, but in the plane
they lied and told me
you would mess with their instruments.
Everyone disapproves of us.
They hate our freedoms but love
how trackable we’ve become:
one set of footprints,
the crumbs of our selfies
fought over by zombie ants.
My prim assistant, how well you fill
the space left by my first love,
a VW camper van.
But you are smoother to travel in,
like Aladdin’s magic throw-rug—
I hardly know I’m moving.
Sometimes I reach into the pocket
where I used to keep cigarettes
and find you there, cool and quiet,
set to vibrate.
anti-poem in honor of Nicanor Parra’s 100th birthday yesterday