This morning I wake up as a parrot.

This is not a metaphor. I am

a parrot. This

is not a dream. I am two teacups tall

like the matryoshka doll

    pop

“Hello, my name is-”

           pop       like palm-sized bumper cars

“Hello, my name is-”       pop     

   like broth, thick and sizzle “Hello,

   my-”  pop  “Hello my name is-”

  spinning like the beam

pop        of the spiraled stagelight twisted

pop        like a wrung towel, I

poke at my body     dazed rich red

  like the sun—the sun!   spinning too

            roly-poly toy    twizzler stagelight  pop

“my name-” pop “my- pop -name is” pop

pluck my feathers    good luck

  charms for lapels  pluck  petal silk

pluck  salutations  pluck  fat bellies and good teeth

     pluck  deep throat

laughter  pluck  that locker room or

shoeshine stench  pluck

“What’s so funny?”  pluck

“What’s so- pluck -funny?”

pluck  “What’s so goddamn funny?”

          stripped red   pluck  carpet-dotted

joint-cracking walking husks  pluck

scared like papier-mâché in the rain

          pluck

I stand naked on the stage,

                                           “Hello.”