Electric tape covered more than just the razor blades,
it covered the instant oatmeal and the wet paint.
My doctor addressed me by my surname like a coach
and he was told about my aversion to labels.
Opaque decals make the bright patterns passive,
render the blaring commercials muted.
Even my Black Flag records were put into blank jackets,
days were passed by cutting tags off of clothing.
After my Elvis impersonators’ get-up was donated to Savers,
my TV was put to sleep by my semi-automatic firearm.
The serial numbers were sanded off of all my equipment
and we chopped down a sign before leaving Savers.
Things began to get difficult when it was time to stroll
because vandalism is a thing that I am not for. Oh no!
Spray paint over spray paint can look twice as nice
on an advertisement for an I-Pod.
White noise machines were mounted in my front yard
so that door to door salesmen could not be heard.
My date last Friday told me that my fortune cookie was rather dull,
it said, “You aren’t in touch with the world.” Oh, why was it read?
Lately, it has been so difficult to get our message out
that we don’t want to be bothered with words.
There was an idea for all of us to gouge out our eyes
in an Oedipal display of solidarity against labels.
No one was for it except for me, and someone asked
why the act had been described as “Oedipal.”
It was explained that we did not want to name our group
but most people just called us motherfuckers, and labeled us anyway.
We almost decided to cut our eyes out, but we didn’t
because we hate symbolism so much… and incest.