Knollder

careful now. watch what you say.
I always happened to look this way.
hump on my shoulder. grassy knoll type situation.
third gunmen cross-triangulation.
I wish I had that magic bolt-action bullet puker
laughing stock of the neighborhood,
similar to bob euker.
but it’s a more sinister, impish sort of chortle,
he at least made the show,
I punch cash register buttons as a deformed mortal.
desperately seeking Sioux san-
citified arrowheads to puncture it, perhaps there’s a portal,
to take me back to the time I was a blastocyst
budding limbs and what were the rudiments of my figure,
I’d stick the sunbeam bread supermarket conveyor grocery divider
between me and that extra pound of…garbled precipice.
no thanks that shit’s not mine, sir,
that’s not gonna be the point at the lady with the hump provider,
of pre-teen scoffs and stiff index finger points;

like I’m kong and nessie’s daughter.

i’m not the missing link to volcanoes and giant lizards.
no, this isn’t a sack of chicken gizzards,
fed through a wood chipper, stuffed under my scapula,
it’s something that accompanied me
through the cervix and all my mother’s other parts,
persistent intrepid barnacle, part tarantula,
soldered to my shoulder, neck, and back you see,
like a side-sleeping beauty pillow placement, hard like quartz.
a geodeifficult cross to bear, you symmetrical stone throwing Judai!
the creative name games about me and you know what,
sometimes make me cry,
woe is my
child who has the mom with the two heads,
her face is red,
when I get on the yellow bus that takes her class to the zoo,
she watches the others’ faces seeing what they are up to,
stuffing their jackets under their shirts,
their normal moms with normal torsos are aghast.
that’s a sin.
the consensus.
I tell her the whisper gawks are always meant for us.

and that’s the way it bees for the most part, I’m guessing,
my mom used to say your shoulder friend’s not a curse,
but a blessing.