I said to myself
In a street comedian’s rant
Calling on a witness
I said to myself
Of which I know no other
Of which I cannot prove exists
A stutter on every syllable
A confession in every thought
With my bullhorn aimed
At dead flies tipped on their faces
With my walkie-talkie
And its band tuned the next life
I said to myself over the static
Speaking with a muted trumpet
Losing my inner voice
Sitting at a stained card table
Scripts all around
The other anonymous players
Who I met in a mirror
Who I costumed in my clothes
A panel of undead judges
Playing footsie with their bandages
I addressed as my true selves
Which made them fall apart in stitches.
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