This is a Poem About My New T.V. Show

Blinking into the palm of my hand
like my eyes were allowed to do that
like a t.v. blinking in a room, my room
or that my heart were actually some sort
of archaic bird thrashing around in my chest
fucking up my ribs and tender organs.
I better not cut that bird out of me
or they would kick me out of life
and people would scoff at my funeral
knowing the salt in their tears for me
would be barely enough to use to soften a
pumice stone or gladden the troops with salt ham.
I'm all like totally pudding and confused.
I'm not mocking myself in the photos
I took of myself making gestures
at the camera like I was glistening on t.v.
and people cared what I did all day
because I was on t.v. fucking doing it
everyday and doing it right for the people.
My stature would be alarming
to those closest to me in bed
there would be kissing but not for show
to make the public feel better about
my not being alone with a bird in my chest
which can ruin a day with sleeplessness.
That it would become a mystery show
about who put the bird in there that was making
my nights sweetly gorgeous and exciting
maybe grabbing my neck and asking for clues
as the credits roll on my show.
It's that groovy and precise, my show.