by Joseph Armstead
Sometimes I can see
my reflection
swimming in the depths
of my martini,
liquid mirror and
bacchanalian curse,
my quicksilvery image
of social inadequacy
masked under a facade
of sardonic anxiety.
My genomic code
wasn't just cracked,
it was splintered,
and mechanical clowns,
robots
of organic chemistry,
picked up the incongruent,
asymmetric pieces,
and stuffed them
into a shoe box.
The sequence bleeds into
the bottom of my glass:
X GGATCATA ... GGATC GGAT ... CC TAGG 5
The mirror is a silvered pool
atop a manhole cover over
a tunnel to Purgatory
reflecting the X-rayed insides
of a digital stranger, plasma widescreen,
who comes each night into my home
to tell me why I am not
perfect/loved/witty/brave/sexy/winning
and I fantasize I can be like
the multitude of snapshots parading
past my insomniac's bloodshot eyes.
Gin and vermouth
replicate the chains
of my ribonucleic center,
a broken neon helix,
keep that secret,
SSShhh! It's in my DNA.
Streaming video
out from the shoe box,
makes me thirsty.
My reflection
disappears
with each slow sip.
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