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. 

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