Conspiracy Theorems

The human heart is the size of my fist.
I only use ten percent of my brain’s
capable functions. The sky is a torn piece

of ocean. The seven layers of skin, this suit
that I’m in, are as thick as a scalpel. Our bodies
are jerky marionettes made to jangle

like skewered nightcrawlers in Lake Michigan.
A fully functional heart requires a muzzle,
is prone to panic, acute and misdirected.

The human eye without reflectors sees
upside down, but gravity, the culprit of wayward
comets and saggy breasts, differs slightly.

So then the ocean is a torn piece of sky discarded.
The human brain is the size of two fists,
knuckles pressed together as an equator

that divides us like a highly evolved chainsaw.
The shark, a lesser evolved chainsaw, like me,
never sleeps, but is never really awake, either.

The first five percent of my brain is preoccupied
with the apocalypse and mastering the perfect martini.
The following organs are as useless as a hiccup:

gallbladder, pancreas, the left kidney. I’m unwilling
to part with them, as if they are beautiful diseases
and my body deserving. My brain functions halfheartedly,

but is ninety percent expendable, has spots the CAT scan
doesn’t acknowledge. This makes me vulnerable
to complexities like the theory of relativity and how

babies are made. My birth confirmed that my parents
wanted better of their quiet living. Condoms guard against
pregnancy, the spreading of disease, with a ninety-eight

percent success rate. Hindsight is haunting.
The other five percent of my brain is a guinea pig testing
the adverse effects of pesticides on children.

The human body is ninety-eight percent water,
thus sky and ocean. A Midwestern pesticide turns male frogs
into females. If only it were that simple, my parents

were rumored to have murmured. Despite scoliosis,
are we not puzzled together according
to the Pythagorean theorem, our obtuse angles?

My parents are prototypes of what they wish I’d become.
I had gills and feathers until the climate dried up.
The human heart can fit in my fist but is capable

of much more indecency. If not the sky or ocean
then what am I wedged between? Like blood,
is it blue until spilled? My sponge of a brain, if weighed,

is the equivalent of the average house cat, only more
porous under gravity and slightly feral. The gallbladder,
when inflated, makes an excellent snow globe.

The pancreas, once dried, can be ornate, artificial fruit.
With a survival rate of two-percent, I escaped, unscathed
with chronic hiccups. The cavity my heart once inhabited

contains synapses misfiring, like rusted spark plugs.
The sky and ocean are defenseless expanses
meant to be diagnosed and conquered.



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