Stanzi—Early Saturday Evening—Talk to the Screen

I’m a television in your living room. I’m watching from inside.

You carried me from the helicopter to the grass. You crossed my legs so I could balance. You wrapped me in blankets.

You put a quiche on my lap but it wouldn’t balance. You took my pulse. You checked my pupils. You moved my arms and let them flop down to my sides.

You kept calling me Stanzi. Stanzi Stanzi Stanzi. And you know it’s not my name, but you called me Stanzi anyway and then you called the doctor and she came with her medics and you put me in an ambulance. You found my parents. You sobered them up with black coffee. You told me I would be okay, but you don’t know what’s wrong.

I don’t know what’s wrong.

Ask my DNA. Ask my little chimera. Ask your television what it wants for dinner and it won’t answer back.

I have a dream. There are no coffins. There are no wombats. There is a blue sky. There are two clouds. I’m on one cloud. You’re on the other. You’re a thousand people. I’m one. You’re one person and I’m two. When you ask me questions, I understand them, but what do the answers matter?