reversible tragedy, polaroid.
by Noah Haalilio Solomon
Don’t put me on the spot: I’m the type to dislike the sound of my own voice but sing loudly after a few cocktails. One day I wish I will wake up and my vocal chords will do anything I make them do, cause healthy manipulation of anything of the self will make the world nicer and neater.
I’m the type with hollow shafts of confidence: I haven’t yet achieved the humble certainty of admission when it comes to my capabilities without the thought of trying to avoid arrogance, like it’s dangling on a string in front of my face and I laugh at its fallacy that I fall for every time…still, like cattle after fodder’s dust.
Don’t put me on the spot: I can only promise a hefty attempt, cause the result usually admits all sorts of doubting inwardly that you can almost see dripping off of my face that is probably cast upward- in the air- trying to wall off the stilted parts of my reflection: cranial bulimia.
My self bends acutely into itself and makes judgments about how I’m a cave-dweller, but gradually these are becoming just observations, so: patience is key until the next ration arrives, by boat, or by inheritance, or by earthquake, thank you this and thank you that. But in the meantime, don’t put me on the spot, put me in the jello mold and tomorrow I’ll be firm.