Passing

I hate that all I’m telling are lies.
Lies are what I tell, people.

I hate that I’m always in the kitchen.
Kitchens are where I dwell, people.

My stomach is a bloated plastic bag
of raw rotting vegetables, gone to bloat,
then sewed into a parcel
of sentiment
by some governing skeleton,
by some mayor of resentment.

The lead lacquer is all that’s left to coat
–this modern art for some metropolitan museum
that had forgotten
that museums are mausoleums
for things of the past.

I’m about to pass.

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