Dollhouse

I wonder who could be calling me at an hour while my bones desire nothing more than rest, tempted to call into the unknown. In the moments between future and known, I discover a phone call I missed. No message. The cabinets here are so small even portions reduce. To smell like she did strolling in a perfumed aisle is a desire I have without changing direction. Part doll, all human, my skin composed of plastic. Recycle my hips, make them his: Ken or Barbeque Barbie into a hot-flash of mid-life crises. Duhamel on edge. In the game of life, a mix of pinks and blues. The music that plays is old news. No ring-tone can light my head into a frenzy of where we once begin. No ex can rekindle the flare of her under-bottoms. Her eyebrows, flailed. Her skin is plastic, like mine. My o my. A phone vibrates deep inside the dollhouse Where I build a bed, an ark, and godlike ethos. A microcosm of sky: Telescopes that seek out new constellations flicker brighter than a belt in the sky night. It’s a hang up & whoever investigates our lust for each other’s flimsy shoes, fathoms fashion for each of her own. Today, I will mow the acrylic lawn with a sprinkle of gasoline and chauvinistic dandelion heads whose egos chop themselves into a sprint of racing blood until there is no more pressure to reduce my hair as white as ice. From the root, the scents come from their bodies, drifting into a known, previously unknown, into a future find.

J. Michael Wahlgren is author of Valency (BlazeVox [Books]) & publisher for Gold Wake Press.