Self Portrait as the Golden Calf

The stone in my knee, the pain which gathers and collects over night will be removed in late August. In the meantime, I carry the burden of its existence wherever I go. Even now, I am aware of its presence, a dull creek stone worn down over time. It has become necessary to count steps and measure distances, before walking across the street, down the hall. It sits as a solid fact, an element to contend with daily, nightly.
123/Self Portrait as the Golden Calf.

As Eve. As Adam. As Adam and Eve.

As Orpheus. As Panoptes Argos.

As Io and Isis and Mary.

As the mold forming on week-old tortilla.

The film that forms on the surface of milk.

Crust of calcium forming on the bathtub water spout.

Dung beetle. Cockroach. Water beetle.

Kafka sweating under the woolen sheets of his mother’s house.

A dropped phone call.

The sporadic static crossing the television screen.

The hesitation between a question and the reply.

An actor who has lost his lines on stage.

Burnt coffee grounds lingering in the base of a paper cup.

A child’s balloon, lost and deflated.

Unpopped kernel of corn.

Broken vase on the kitchen floor.

The forgotten apostrophe in a contraction.

Franz Marc’s blue horses.

Myself in a funhouse mirror. In a cracked mirror. In a tarnished mirror.

Lost line of poetry.


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