by Douglas Kearney
When your body isn’t your body you a we’s sick and them’s ain’t my peoples, you’s my peoples.
I rent a car and crash it. I rent a red car and crash it at a green wall. I come out like a mess of dark seeds of things. We’s hurt. I pay the deductible. Fine for wrecking their me of theirs.
I broke and entered that body of mine is theirs and theirs is. Alarms everywhere. We’s scared. They said: It’s all yours, officer. What a relief. The police couldn’t excessive me because I wasn’t mine in the first place!
We’s feeling low. Let’s string my body of theirs and watch it shimmy. Click. I post my self of theirs and say wish I was here. I’m laughing!—it sounds like them. Cakewalking: My hand up their hand up my hand up their hand. My lips of theirs don’t move when I talk!
For this next trick. I ain’t done nothing they haven’t seen. My eyes are their assholes. Either my head or what I see is their “head.” Them’s ain’t my feelings, you’s my feelings.
The airbag gillespies. we’s bleeding, underlined in my journ—who taught you to—?!
When the chalk licks me up, this bodying’s a plantation of want. We’s hungry. Them’s ain’t my hashtag, you’s my hashtag. I’m working side-by-side with the hounds. Teeth on ass in teeth on ass in teeth. Whose lips are moving?
When my body ain’t my body I need directions to a hole in the ground. That’s not our bodies, that’s your bodies. Thank y’all, hunny. Give-es us…us(?). Free-ishly, I have escaped to where I was the whole time.
I’m. I’m. I’m. I’m. I’m. I’m.
Last updated September 25, 2022