Donut Squish

a consistent semicolon
follows this body as spontaneous-combustion
circles from both sides of it

and both sides of it are touching
the open parenthesis of past, to the
left, and future
to the right, providing

a sense of walled in security
but not a security of ceiling fans or
utility bills till I’m 80

but security of space, no
there is no space suit nor
space ship to go with this burger, only
empty as it is, as being

also a type of body, squeezing
from both sides, squeezing
the pimple, myself is, between
these two

walls becoming
squeezed together
towards popping outwards, white
cream in the middle of an éclair donut

popping kind of kernel, kind of
captain in the army
of being, popped
goes the weasel, the weasel
of allegory and association, the weasel
of raccoons nibbling
late night trash bins

in our neighborhood, that
as of now
will no longer be my neighborhood, that
will become evacuative of
these presences and memory will replace
the tractions gripping these
feet to their socks, now

shoes inside a sneeze will become less
funny and someone else will replace the
account of their bank with more money, money

has tastefully entered my mouth when I drink my
morning coffee, and I am not
concerned about

becoming an éclair’s insides squished on all sides of
reality, I
am not concerned about the reliability of
becoming squeezed to death
by the ends of reality
I am

not concerned about the space which
is nobody
but a lack of pressure as a type of
pressure, squeezing the
walls of its nothingness
into my

squishing my being
out the middle of
being somebody, and what
appears out, a hole
a rainbow appears

and we
can’t tell what came first

the chicken or the egg


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