I'm Not Supposed to Wear This Gorilla Costume


I'm supposed to be on a plane for Gibraltar.

On the back of my hand, I've written keywords


like natural disaster and conscience.

In the turbulence, I'd be taking the in-flight meal


apart with a plastic knife.  It is always up

to the omelet to appear greening in the light.


So what if I've begun to resemble a hair ball

by the hour?  I've never gotten paid on time,


never had my nose hair plucked by

a professional.  There's supposed to be


a celebration of some sort—pagan

or otherwise—taking place in three days


at the studio of a future spouse.

The expectations of others have little


to do with reality.  The way everyone

prepares their clothes to jitterbug the dancefloor


is supposed to make me think everything else

is the alpha dog.  I shouldn't even be


following this trail of dead ants, but someone

burned them and left the magnifying lens


in my hand.  I have a birthday greeting, too

hidden somewhere in my body.  I should stop


fondling all this synthetic hair now.  If this is Kansas,

what have I been fighting for all my life?

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