Second World Reflective Vision Head

No Disclaimers

Weary eyes

underscored by

technicolor bags.

Peach skin seems

splotched yellow,

enveloping constellations

of bright red pimples.

Each imperfection screams

for my attention in the harsh light,

as my features appear odd & flat without shadows.

 

I swear whoever thought to put all these fluorescents in a row at the head of every bathroom mirror must work for the department of developing & profiting off of low self-esteem.

 

This is how I start my day,

steadfast gaze,

& I'm lost

in a second world

on bare silver.

 

 

 

The barren wedding chapel

is made immaculate by Windex.

Hexagon walls, overtook by full length mirror,

create tunnels of endless repetition.

My face, the back of my head, my face,

the back of my head, my face, the back of my head.

They say this meta-reflection

represents the continuity of love.

 

 

Eventually these mirrors cease to rely on outside light,

light will bounce between the mirrors without source &

the chapel is no longer illuminated, but phosphorescent.

 

I walk to the subway,

craning my neck

to catch my reflection

on storefront windows.

I always pause for the dresses;

Quinceñera & Wedding styles.

 In glimmering cages,

they shimmer sequins &

I’m trapped in each prism.

My second world head

replaces the mannequins’.

 

Dark underground tunnels & lit up subway cars compose the light play with which the windows ensnare images of LA residents in endless repetition" we are suffocated in a cacophony of reverberation.

 

Our ghosts float over advertisements & EXIT signs.

Are you staring at you or staring at them?

I try to make sure I don’t seem

like I’m staring at you.
My eyes glued on a 2-D world.

 

 

 

The subway, my mind, the chapel,

& I run around inside,

pushing each of the six crystal walls,

trying to find the door.

But, distracted by images

of infinite me's

multiplied by six,

I'm confused as to

 

which walls are

which ones

I've tried,

which me

is me.