Awkweird

Like a baby shower
at an abortion clinic
I have always been awkward
and a little weird.

I am bathos personified,
a schizophrenic dramedy
without pacing or direction
or pertinence to the narrative—
a fart joke
in the middle of a love triangle,
or a food fight
while the hero proposes to his
damsel.

I am
a headstone for your
grandma’s birthday party
because I have been told
that forethought
should be appreciated.

I am
a streaker caught
in a Black Friday swarm
pressed between angry mothers
with impatient children
and wondering where
he put his wallet.

I am
a self-avowed atheist
invited to say Grace
at a company picnic,
and I am
like nervous laughter
during a hostage negotiation,
the muzzle against my temple.

I am
an errant boner
in swimming trunks
while at the public pool,
or a bit of broccoli in the teeth
of a president speaking
of impending war;
a fan invited on stage
to sing a song
and spacing-out on the lyrics
with the microphone broadcasting loudly
my static-crackling forgetfulness
as I hem and haw
in beatbox rhythm.

I am
an unarmed Security guard
asking to see a real cop’s ID
and a
gangly stork
among a flock of flamingos;
a boot put on backwards
and sliding off to reveal
a peg leg.
Sometimes I feel
like the universe’s punchline,
and yet nobody laughs at the joke
because I am just too weird and awkward.

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