We are born in the bed of the body. 
We bear that bed 
until the world comes around 
and tortures out our flavor. 
And what is structure then 
but ready grave, 
and what is story then 
but same sham outcome? 
My little face is like a moon potato, 
tubes climbing out of it, 
beholden to the great 
moon potato loser 
I gawk at on my back 
as fireballs and masks 
glide toward my murder. 
My vest is wrested off-- 
my ...