23 March, 2011

Cracker Jacks

I had to get new skin
in order to spy for the great [blank] nation.

Not figuratively, no!

Actual dermis, ripped from my sinews and muscles
like carpet being replaced in an office building.

New comfy, cozy, unmarked beige skin-carpet,
stapled into place by someone with a tie and no first name.

It smarts.

The mess made is sopped up by old receipts,
order forms, certificates in different languages.

Blood and fat and pain ooze out of my now-dead pores,
I stare blankly, with pride of country.

So now I can spy because my skin has no shades
or memory or marks of nostalgia or time.

Loosely, it forms.

I learn to use this new skin although it
stares back at me blankly, lobotomized.

Without it, my body has no bag to keep it whole.
With it, I am heroic, peaceful, blank.

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