from The Ball
19.
A ball and
chain—
that’s it!
The model in the
photograph wears a ball and chain,
a must-have
accessory now
and I’m totally enraptured
by it.
Thoughts of:
exploitation,
immobilization,
and loads of sex appeal!
I know someone—a
digital
acquaintance,
a thin, stylish
presence,
a 90s apparition
in the
background
of old friends’
photos
now and then
just… to…
remind… me…
and well,
she has
“ain’t
nobody’s
ball and chain”
tattooed on
her thin calf
to ward off the
analogical
ball-and-chain, or
any
particular crutch, really, louder at a certain
hours of day or
year or many years now on repeat,
to have squeezed
the universe into a ball,
to
roll it towards some overwhelming question,
spinning in
tight patterns towards a dark
and unknown
(dis)appointment;
thatisnotitatall.
Well, she has
chain smoked cigarettes for as long as I can remember,
and well,
I’ve always
wanted to be her(e):
another
Debbie
Harry wannabe
reborn Heroin
chic
and plotless
like
an indy film
during
the last decade
of
the last century
and
feeling special
about it,
balls out confidence,
all bleached
bones
and eyeliner,
all sharp
angles,
still there
to underscore
that I haven’t
changed a bit.
Well, not anymore!
Cause the ball and
chain is in these days!
She’ll
have to get one of those
large
ANTI symbols
over the AIN’T
or cross the
whole thing out.
Although well,
I guess those
ANTI symbols
are real hip,
too.
You know irony
sells well in an age
of (violent)
(comfortable) disbelief.
Just like the
model in the photograph
selling more by caring
less—
but just in case
I carry this
battered invitation
in my pocket as
proof
I belong inside
even if you saw
me
trip once or twice
over what seems
to you nothing,
an entire
invisible
mafia of
obstacles,
trying, always
trying,
to get (t)here;
you won’t hear
me call this
ball and chain
too heavy,
no sir,
can’t you just
imagine my smile?