where the fuck is my tv

“hey buddy”,
the dog does not
leap from the open
window and tear from
you your throat. you
do not walk silently
by, judging everything.
you do not watch
the puddle of disaster
approaching, on the other
side of the street, now,
with the entire arm somehow
fixed in a cast, you
do not watch as they
smile deliriously,
sightlessly, say “hello”
to the other body on
the other side of
the street, that could not
possibly hear them.
you do not watch the
approaching puddle until your
body has come, judging,
close enough for it to be
noticed, you do not
then turn your gaze any
which way but where it may be
fixated upon by them.
you have not made
repeated attempts
at what you think is
friendship though may really be one
of a near-limitless forms of
perversion. disfigurement. you
are not halfway disgusted
by the body not halfway
disgusted by the utterances both
silent and vibrating issued from
it. you do not desire for
thinner socks. you do not
want for flatter shoes.
you do not need for
always anything something
indigo pale hazy yellow and
pearlescent lacquered blue.
you have not forgotten the
exoticism of your sameness.
you do not fail to look to
the mountain. you are not ever
in catastrophic awe looking up
while down below
the outside edge of eye,
so commonly referred to as
“sky”.