Parasites: they insinuate themselves

into your head, your heart, your art.

–

They exist in the schizophrenic zone:

the lower right corner of your painting

looking for patterns that go to childhood,

the well rehearsed gestures that

allow them to take over,

plant the image in your agitated brain

that makes you doubt your love,

sign over your entire identity,

make you think that they can kill

with a scrape of peach fuzz,

until everything smells, feels,

tastes exactly the same-

a collision of piss and water

that knows money and not art

is the iron that smoothes

out all those creases.

–

The concrete jungle is the exam.

Their goal is to dominate it.

–

You enter through the black portal

searching for the thing you lost

in the right corner a long time ago-

the thing you call son or daughter-

tapping out SOS with your forehead

on the button on the wall

that connects with the light outside

until it reads SON to that distant brain.

–

Whether you kill someone or betray

your country doesn’t matter.

It is just the thing you keep

hidden in the basement

that doesn’t know

that all it needs to escape

is to walk up the stairs.

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