Frankenstein’s Monster Picks Out
His Clothes for the Day
Nothing fits. Not a single pair of trousers
that my father had Igor steal from Goodwill.
My T-shirt advertising a bar in Key West
is stained from the last electrical fire
we had in the laboratory. Friday’s storm
blew out both of my Air Jordan Toro Bravos
from the huge heel to the kickly tiptoes.
Boxers don’t come in Forty XL,
and in a fit of confusion and hunger I ate
the alligator belt with my Wheaties this morning.
I loved my Russian overshirt, the kind that
Yuri wore in the film of Dr. Zhivago because
it would tell the world I have a sensitive soul.
I tore out both armpits pulling it overhead.
Relaxed-fit Levi’s don’t relax that much, and I fear
they ripped apart on knowing it was I they clothed.
My Timex Indiglo watch fell off when my wrist did.
The peace-symbol necklace with an iron medallion
that Father gave me caught on the bolt in my neck
and set the curtains in my bedroom on fire.
Nothing fits. The Gold Cup socks I loved got used
to mop up blood and axel grease from a new
experiment underway to create me a girlfriend.
She awoke once in the violence of lightning
and cried: I had rather be dead than wear that
outfit to the mall! Then she collapsed into her
second-hand underwear and twitched once, twice.
Honey, I roared, O honey, I know how you feel.