Didn't I see you in that movie? I say.
You look at me like I've slipped a few threads
on my wing nut, shake your head, frown
and start to rise from the table.
I'm sure you're in it, I add. Sit
down, please. Have some more coffee; just
sit down, please? You sit back down,
straighten your rumpled collar.
In this scene, I say, our meeting is
preliminary to…
Your eyes widen, you look like
I've just kicked you in the groin,
both white-knuckled fists on the table.
I clear my throat, begin again.
Cut! Cut! cries a corduroy-jacketed man
as he leaps from his sun-bleached
portable chair off in the corner.
Let's do that again, and this time…
The faceted, translucent letters of red
held flat to the marquee's face
allow embedded fluorescents to enter
the signifiers' plastic to transfuse
memes, sink teeth into the brain-stems
of passing motorists and pedestrians
so they'll file into the theatre, feed popcorn-
buttered egos on hallucinations captured
in the camera's one psychedelic glassy eye.
What goddamn movie are you talking
about? you scream, turning heads across
the elegant dining room. Never have I witnessed
such boldness in someone I've only just met.
You know, I say. It's called The Life of Bobby Parrott.
You are one crazy mother f…
Wait a minute, I say, slitting my eyes, fingers
steepling to the unexpected anomaly.
You – mean – this – isn't – a film?
DoubleSpeak 