An Encounter with Myself

Sitting on a yellow metal bench, I can feel the spray-painted flakes gradually suck away at my cellulite dimples.

But still, I slurp down a crushed grape slushy, and follow the flexing calves of those that slink by with my heavily coaled eyes...

A cactus build, wrapped in a continuous pink silk shawl and jingling loud with rusted bronze bells, chops at the air with her jutting elbows, piercing needles poke out of the pink flesh like miniature circus tents. An ancient cotton wrapped glider gathering speed, she pumps, excavating a frayed clump of tissue from behind a dark fold in her garment. I shake the juice and ice shit up to my chin, my arm and neck dripping with slippery condensation and shiny sweat, leaving a shallow puddle on my boot. Suddenly she casts off her fuchsia wings; two pant legs of light sky denim, thick with braided thread. So tall that I cannot see the waist bead hoops, only the pinched dimple of the knee, curving out of the stiff fabric, as if he were made of gritty clay.

SSSCCCCLLLLOOP- the last goopy ice sliver sucks down my throat.

I imagine the tough strands of pearl blue denim rub against and sand down his skin, wearing down the kneecap with every kick of the ankle and stiff bend of the hips, causing the glass ceiling to be choked up with razor scrapes and the heaving sighs of power tools.

If I were to undress him, he would be as slickly smooth as a marble statue, which I would promptly push off the pedestal, first feeling the cool stone absorb into the ridges of my thumbs and wrinkles of wrists, and crack into a million spider web splits and snakeskin coils, bounding down the stairs like a dented rust bucket too full of black ink.