I hover above,
     & to the right of,
my head,
my consciousness a balloon
blown up by an asthmatic child.
In this way, I drag the Body
like Linus with his dingy blanket,
& a Body is heavier to pull
than to propel from within –
it's a garbage bag shimmering
  oil-slick black
stuffed with bricks
& sloshing with the dregs
  of a thousand unwanted drinks.
It reeks of spoiled milk
& writhes with maggots.

I am beautiful
   but the Body is not.
I am brilliant
   but the Body is not.
I am a triple-headed
   boy-tundra-crone
    heaving trash behind me
& I am tired.

I am tired & surrounded
     by eyes
     & mouths:
   wet & smacking
   dry & peeling
   bleeding or swollen
   painted with pinks, reds,
    purples, spittle
   gnawed or bitten
   crumb-cornered
shaping dark tunnels
around impossible codes.

When I was still inside the Body
there was just one set of eyes
  conveying nothing
alighting along my back
  & the top of my head
like a benign cyst.
Now it's hundreds of flashbulbs
   it's little black domes
   it's men in uniform
   it's passing cars
   it's people
   it's nobody I know
   it's “excuse me”
   it's “hello”
   it's both spoken & unspoken
   it's
    a plane thick with eyes –
phalanxes closing in
  casting nets
   like those for dogs or butterflies
  such that I'm latticed with shadows
a sheet of graph paper
waiting to be punctured with equations.

I've tried to re-enter the Body
& I've tried to abandon it,
because its rot attracts the
  vultures, flies, & eyes,
but the tether between us,
taut as an over-tuned guitar string,
is tough & thick
impenetrable by scissors, knives, or wire-cutters
& too sharp & stinging to grasp.

The only escape
lies just beyond
streets choked with snow
   permitting no passage.