a new algorithm
i tell the ghosts my old poetry
& they knit backwards a self
whose eyes float
like buoys in a bowl
of fruit punch. the sun is
spitting out copies of herself
only they are slightly off.
one sun sells popcorn. another sun
scorches the earth. the truth is
i am a manufactorable
kind of face. all it takes
is a woman tied to a chair.
this algorithm prevents loneliness. this one
sews up the holes where
the bones have started
to wonder off. only, often,
i think i am less defined by what i am
& more by my absences.
where does my head roll off
& become another red rubber ball?
here is how
my teeth left to pursue
new lives as jupiter beetles.
i do not want to be measurable.
taking a pocket knife
to every number & soon
i am standing in a vat of macaroni.
boil the moon. boil
the fear that's left. i kneel
& pick up the algorithm. it has feathers &
far too many throats.
it says, "i want to be measurable."
i say, "i want you to celebrate."
so, i carry the algorithm
down to where the sky
kneels to the earth. we eat sherbet
& i lose a rib. the algorithm promises
to learn about the smell of lavender.
to listen to techno pop.
thread a needle. i cough up
some confetti & we are joyful.