Rob Colgate

Body Salad

Fix me. Is anyone else saying this?
I want fast cheap agony. I mean
joy. I mean antacids. I want
to be finished, as in a book
read, not a body felt. Let me
gesture towards command.
I promise I can do this
alone. By this I mean agony.
By agony I mean perpetual
motion, ever forward, my tiny
little body stumbling along
the hike and bike trail.
What? Ok, I’ll bite.
I’ll swallow. I’ll do whatever
it takes to get to the next
line. Let me waste space. Let me
ask over and over again
for permission. What should I
repeat? By this I mean agony.
I want to try, I think. I’m trying.
To make sense I must make
salad. Don’t tell me
I’m trying. I don’t know
what’s been on my mind
recently. How do I externalize
my processing? Quickly.
Over and over again
I choose you. No one
is talking about this!
I slip and fall in the shower.
All of this on top of being
mentally disabled?
Seems suspicious to me—
as in, unfair, not illegal.
Ugh. At least tuck me in
at night. At least pretend
not to notice when
I sneak out to the park.
At least the trees waited
until you were drunk
and I was alone to start
grabbing at my waist.
Ow. That hurts. Let go.
What are you doing?
Hey, what are you doing?