On the Casting Couch
Mr. Magic Man, I grew up at midnight
with a willing need
for consumerism, a dramatic ritual
I’m unwilling to pay for. I’ll spare you the details
of my childhood, chalk it up
to myth. Let’s make this easier—lop off
my midsection, slit me ear
to ear—it’s easier to speak to me without a face
or clothes. There’s no fear
when I’m felt up. I stumble with my mouth
and will raise Babylon
by tongue. I’ve whitened
my teeth so many times, gums
derelict, in credit card debt but I love
myself, it is my only passion.
My body tries to tell me something. A cough—
but I ignore it. What is air?
Who are you? I’m nice
and firm. I don’t remember
names—that twilight language—
but know the lines.