late this morning, the uncanny came knocking on my door to ask if i was in need of a black, men’s belt or a burgundy curtain panel or love letter (it comes in a set with guilt, two for the price of one) or a magenta secretary’s dress (with white triangles flung about the bodice, stabbing my ribs and breasts). everyone except the macedonian woman wearing the red handbag around her neck knows that burgundy and magenta should never be on the same serving platter, much less the same mannequin, but i still said, yes, yes, if i must yes, and i suppose yes.
the brown postage box underneath my bed is the mouth of a pit leading down into the boiler room, where lie heaps and piles of merchandise the uncanny sold me.
the uncanny, however, did not sell me my stare. the albanians, some old men, all the smoking women, and a few construction workers, lent it to me for free. i am afraid when i remember the ladder peering in my window, and tonight the stare does not wander from my peeling sill. i pretend to be the panopticon until you forget your name and the sound of elastic panties snapping.
there are so many objects in the world all shuffled and rotated in circles and we are all children on a carousel turning the opposite direction, reaching for the golden ring(s). you might have my umbrella one day and i your slick, round eyes. dollars for pipes, pipes for dollars, dollars for pillows, pillows for dollars, dollars for salad forks, salad forks for dollars, dollars for why must you look in my window to find what you want?
