cubists

i feel like i have no idea what i look like. small bits of me are these terrible puzzle pieces i use to make a cubist painting of what i could be. sometimes in the mirror i see a girl worth loving, but in pictures i see: arms, legs, nose, body. one good picture out of two hundred and forty. i felt like i looked nice this morning. i see myself in plus/minus, good hair but bad skin, crooked teeth but nice eyes, fat arms chubby body good sense of humor at least if they get past the wide forehead and every other ugly piece. i don’t know. once in a while out of the corner of my eye i see myself and i’m startled because i look nothing like what i thought i did. but then the moment shifts and i become pieces again.

The Signs at the Museum:

Aries: Maximizing their arts per second by sprinting through the exhibits.

Taurus: Staring hungrily at the still-lives.

Gemini: Contributing. With crayons.

Cancer: Staring thoughtfully at the succulent on the reception desk. They have not yet realized there is more museum.

Leo: Confused as to the plot of this weird comic book building.

Virgo: Arrived naked, assumed that was just what you did.

Libra: Being followed through the exhibits by a small herd of cats.

Scorpio: Pretending to be an art. Its working.

Ophiuchus: Feels the floor is wasted space here and continues to carve their own arts into the concrete.

Sagittarius: Looks the orderlies in the eye while they appreciate the art to establish power.

Capricorn: So moved by a cubist sculpture they they slid sideways out of the museum.

Aquarius: Eating paint as a show of solidarity.

Pisces: Being escorted out as the orderlies were not lonely and did not appreciate the hug.

flickr

Woman in a Hat With Pompoms and a Printed Blouse, 1962 // Pablo Picasso by Miguel Catalan