i am nearly asleep in the super-
market somewhere inside this body- wound
in fractals waiting in the stomach- hands-
tongue- crushed by a vision that is not mine-
eyeing closely the neon bananas
that make me taste like nothing- wishing i
had you in my pocket- ginsberg- you are
too big- and you- thomas pynchon- what are
you doing down there laughing at the soup?
what price everything? my face- in a jar
is bending its way around old onions-
i watch the guard and feel absurdly thin
walking in my imagination to my bed-
knowing i will not be preserved.