these synthetic lights are too loud
the microphone keeps
threatening to take off my head

i don’t want to be a part of this cast anymore
the script is grim, defected
infecting my nights as i fixate on the plot,
which
            baffles
                        me
with its steady flow of crisis

the director keeps demanding dramatic theatricals from me
we rehearsed this particular scene a few dozen times
i’m in an airport terminal
a woman bears to me grave news of a man
who has drowned himself
screeches erupt from the mouth of a child

end scene

now the final production has been released
i’m sitting in the audience
my life is happening on the screen
there are
                earthquakes
                                       in my veins

i am the director of this film

roll the credits
but don’t give me credit for this

-k.p.-