fluid mosaic

An Ode to the Cell Wall

A Tall Green Man stands in the doorway

And each cell in his body is a pocket watch:

Each set to the same time, each one broken.

But even a broken clock is right twice a day.

For him no meaning is necessary, in fact,

No meaning is best.

The man with the purple forehead has a dog.

A small brown dog with fleas in its hair

Who drags his ass on the carpet there.

He drags his ass like a miserable toad,

And then waits for the purple forehead to erode.

The man with brown feet needs a vacation

From dirty plates, chairs, shoes,

Soap, clean socks, and new food.

The cabinets are finally empty, we’re eating the dust

Because the brown footed man is tired

Of shopping for groceries, sitting in chairs, using soap.

The man with a blue neck is done

With the seasons, there’s only one day

Twice a year that’s any damn good at all.

The first day of fall and the first day of spring—

The rest aren’t good for a thing.

The man with red arms doesn’t like the color

Painted on his walls,

But red-armed people can’t move furniture,

Can’t buy house paint,

Can’t lay down tarps, fuss with cheap rollers and brushes,

So the red-armed man sits on his couch

And puts a large pillow

On either side of his head.

The orange-torso man is sick as hell

And his ears give off an awful smell

He used to ride horses when money was better

And before he contracted the virus—

But now he wears sneakers stuffed with mustard seeds

And his skin feels quite like papyrus.

The man with yellow ears can’t figure out

Why a baby is born with such joy.

He wonders if babies stock-pile joy—

As a bulwark, a reserve that can be drawn upon,

When the crushing weight finally descends

On their little minds.

One of these days, I’ll find a shirt

One that I won’t never have to change

Or take off, or warsh.

But the Tall Green Man knows that all shirts

Need washing, and to go three,

Maybe even two days without it,

Would make him smell like the

Cabinet under the sink,

Like a homeless man, like ammonia.

The man with black shins is building a rocket

Aimed for Jupiter, or possibly Mars.

He’s calibrated the thrusters, set the exhaust,

All based on the motion of stars.

But he can’t just take-off, he has to take time

For the eight glasses of water per day.

The eight hours of sleep per night.

The eating, the shitting, he can’t find a break,

A time for his ship to take flight