i find myself
trapped in the plot
of one of your favourite movies.
an intricate dream inside the head
of the pensive producer. he's designed
this world to distract us all from who
he is who we all really are,
from where we all really are.
the popcorn bowl won't empty itself.
our appetites can't make any
promises, the letter will not read
what i've written on it;
my words hate themselves.
i find myself
trapped in the plot
you've devised to captivate
and capture me. to distract me,
engage me, for a few hours.
we turn to a new film; we peel off
a thin layer of skin and examine
the raw tissue underneath; the web
of another blood-thirsty spider
descending on its unfortunate prey.
. . .
i find myself
trapped in the plot
-plot-plotting of points in the graph
of my heart. my veins flow through
these functional relationships
between two sets of genetic data;
numbers, measured at intervals
as they intercept each other.
i dress my heart up so
it coordinates with yours.
the coordinates climb with
growth that bends my veins;
my heart is a non-linear equation.
its so easy to miscalculate
the compatibility of variables.
in this chaotic, random world
of uncertainty, is it reasonable
to reproach one who is jarred
for being a fickle pickle?
cucumbers go bad when left alone.
. .
i find myself
trapped in the plot
you've reserved for me. a small piece
of land, big enough for a garden
or if nothing can grow
a grave.
we never wait for the happy ending.
who needs to see him take her off
in his arms, kissing her
with love? the story's over.
