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    On the Casting Couch

     

    by Stephen Zerance

     

     

    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.

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