Practitioner of Pretense—
you who has a soft spot
for drunk Halloweens—
nameless eye-holes
bobbing
to an addictive pulse:
Forgive us for shuffling around
halfhearted
at your moody masquerade,
denying
by morose or meditative means
any complicity
in earth’s dark and edgy humor.
Dear lover of all things feverish
and farcical,
before this eerie party ends,
please turn us into shit-faced judges,
awarding everyone
first prize
for how seamlessly they strutted
their stuffy mask—
Until finally, we see it:
This haunted flesh—
all of it,
everywhere—
is nothing but a drenched bandana,
a tender dressing
for your oozing wound
of oneness.
