when you proposed a simple nominalist solution to the ship of theseus paradox,
i began calling myself by your name
and painting self-portraits in the style of lucio fontana.
i could not scratch the surface,
something flew away and died, forgotten in midair like noah’s raven.
i pondered a positive catatonia in the bathtub,
but began to feel more marat than archimedes.
the canvas stayed closed, but begin to bleed, a bit alkaline,
so i brought it to the tub; it did not know how to swim. by then
my skin had folded over itself, stagnant water running through the sulci.
this sudden metamorphosis caused me to forget the paths back to my room,
the walls all corners pulsing outward. i was forced to rent a new apartment
on a street whose name i could not pronounce. it shared a kitchen with a foreign embassy
and came with a week’s supply of methylated cooking wine.
the cabinets were full of ostraka and bird shells.
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