The Doppelganger's Reenactment as Character Assassin
"In the morning, the doves cooed their fuck-yous."
I'm just his stand-in.
I simulate a bare yellow bulb
and strategic cobwebs, cinder blocks
and composite crooks, genuine
poverty. I stand just so.
I'm here to make the ficus
by the bay window look less loved.
If I stare at a wallet-size reproduction
of his face, I can make my eyes like ice
over an orange grove. If the director desires
my nose closer to my lips, I imply. I perspire.
There's no feeling to mimic it.
When I achieve him, I go tectonic.
The left side of my brain falls fast asleep.
When they call action on the stabbing,
I bring my silver fist down swiftly
and try to invent a fast food menu
in Greek with Latin condiments,
bloody and slightly appetizing. Take one.
Take two. The result: Little Miss Victimhood
plays dead for a higher tax bracket.
Afterwards, in my trailer, I remove his face
with a straight razor. In the mirror, I sing
goodbye gorilla, goodbye girl,
hello unsolved misery.
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