Have I lead a Teenage Ninja Mutant Turtle’s life?
People talk about privilege, but there’s no object
eerier than this personhood’s yellowy shawl.
Maybe there’s an emptiness that has no literal
value, it shifts but nothing shudders, exactly
the life you’ve oft rendered semi-relevant,
succinct, a flooded checkout aisle’s memories
no longer discards, discounted, a vale of tears
that has its own grittily attractive pudginess.
When things start cohering together in a life,
the wren stolid and reflected in a scoreboard,
jagged mail no longer hefty with meaning,
tropical zones, record bunkers, Ziploc baggies,
maybe that’s the terrifying fate within things.
It’s just so smart. I see it fully, bringing back
the high school atmosphere, it inevitably flows
into perspective, but now, banal, corporatized,
redone, supernaturally bland with yet activity
in tact, the beige substitutions seem more final.
Whenever something terrible happens in a life
the terrible thing’s being smack in the interior.
Fantastical turquoise unicorn binders look
the same but can’t be looked at any longer.
This is my suffusion. This my captivity.