The Many Faces of Pablo Picasso

A 1950s switchboard, you say? Too wordy for wires but plugs seem to stifle my meniscus and understatements. I am what my mother made me: a scaled person.

You found me wishing on sheared grass. A lawnmower chops and mauls
the parsley floor. Green blades smelling of spring inch closer to lop off my ears:
an impaled person.

Whimpers attract bears, so I'll cover myself with bees to attract the queen.

My stubbed-toe screams muffled by a postage stamp: "Lost-in-the-mail" person.

Venus descends with shining breasts, capturing the bees’ attention, then leaves.

I make sketches with an hourglass but later burn them in a Prius: an unveiled person.

Fireflies struck down by stars, eulogies written with chainsaws, and books that read like tanning beds. 

Too attached to those books; skin boiled, and blind: a brailed person. 

I’m a can of tuna and three shotgun shells away from Yahtzee. This is the end 

of a line etch-and-sketched into oblivion or a dry-erase board thin frail person. 

I’ve seen myself enough times in others to know that I’m a picture perfect visage 

of cubism and Marilyn Monroe. You stroll along silk entrails: my failed person.