Step 1
Mistake me for no one else. Look me up in the foreground
when the screen freezes and the tree’s breezes. Look me up in the index, at the
after party, in the third row. Look me up just beyond where it’s wet, where the
show stops reaching, but the phases and the fog start stopping.
Look me up on lists that YOU made a long time ago, when it
was only our fault. Look up at me when you see me for the first time and every
time after that is another first time. Look me up when you forget that
dynamism, when looking all around is fruitless. Look me up past the crescendo
and into the calm. Where the bridge is, I am. Look.
Step 2
Where there’s a ring, but there’s no way there would be.
When we are all tall, to the finish line, the crowd grows on the backs of those
whose hips pop and knees lock at every town. I look forward to going under, I
look forward to the scar, I look forward to scalpels and saws, and pithy little
landmarks, to respite.
Forced through a thick layer of garbage (and there was very
little underneath), we were very much the leader. We were the tightest pants, we
were huge disappointments. We stared, ashamed, but unable to help it. Our teeth
were grey, our legs crossed in discomfort, our wives by our sides. We sipped,
gesticulated, pantomimed, and have otherwise laid motionless beside tables. The
bigger, better shoes, the longer torso, the wrong door, the wrong sign. Do I
say something because I feel responsibility? And then I spend long enough
somewhere in some place, and in that place I learn the rules and I want to
follow them?
Step 3
What did you look like when you fucked my husband? No one is
perfect, but what did you look like?