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.
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