My life’s a funhouse: giant faces taunt me
& every cornering reveals another hazard:
volcano simmering in the guest room, dinosaurs
holding bazookas. As if their teeth weren’t enough,
as if your quiet rage in the next room doesn’t already
scare me. I’m stuck halfway through the wall
& there’s pie on my face. The first two mirrors
show how I’d look if I were short & fat or tall & skinny,
but the third shows me as I really am: attractive,
magnetic. How else to explain the paperclips
stuck to my face, the loose change scattered over my back?
Some days I think it’s better not to move at all,
to just stand & watch while the innocent tumble from the sky.
Such lovely music. Such unbelievable piercings.
The clown who runs the show didn’t count on my big dumb head,
couldn’t have known I’d run at high speeds into the same problems
over & over again. His red nose deflates while tears streak
the white greasepaint on his face. I can’t tell you
why I do the things I do. I eat the pie off my own face,
savoring the custard of my mistakes. I run down the street
punching with both hands, knocking out
anyone who’s hoping to see me made a fool of.