Outside he parked his tuck, this Tall Bald Man ran some Show.
He wore a vibrant outfit, his mustache match his sinister tone.
He said he’d show us all a trick, if we stepped into his canvas tent.
It covered the bead of his truck, Inside I found a couch and friends.
The Tall Bald Man produced a Machine, Like a Christmas cookie tray.
We where advised to stand in single file.
He lined us up and lead the way.
It swallowed us all, down the line.
Like the mouth of a bottomless bag.
He moved towards us with the the tin spread wide,
I soon forgot my place and name.
I felt at home. Now worlds away.
The sun glistened through the ridiculously clean windows.
White furniture sat in the sun, newspapers on the coffee table.
A woman with a vacuum paced around and cleaned.
She tells me its time to get ready.
So I gather myself, and find the things that I need.
I find my shoes. I find my socks. In the closet I fetch my coat,
Through the window on the closet door, I see a rubbery suit.
In the closet I find my face on a suit strung on a hanger.
I take it down and stretch it over my bones,
And seel it with a zipper.
Looking around as I step outside the front door.
Streets of houses and perfect lawns,
I see it drive by and I want to scream,
The Vibrant Man’s truck, rolls on down the street.
Inside I remember the thin tin machine.
Who am I now and what is this dream.
I hear a loud sound and an unwinding of gears,
A popping of coils and a racing of wheels.
Like a Jack in the box who’s done taking turns.
I feel the Tin scraping, in lurches and whirs.
The tin scraped and slid on its joints,
Unwinding in phases. Scraping my skin.
This has to stop! I must move again!
I look all around in confusion and pain,
I’m sitting someplace, I don’t know where I am.
And there’s the people all around who’d been in the tin.
Sitting all around with faces of grins.
Something crazy happened and I had stopped the machine.
I looked up and down confused and in pain.
A tumbling of everything, I lay on the floor,
Misshapen, and damaged, I’m half a brick wall.
Half of my body still crammed in the thin tin,
My left eye peripherals strained to take in,
That my left side was bricks and I was a wall,
I couldn’t move anything and felt stories tall.
I looked up to the Man, and I gathered my voice,
I don’t want to play anymore, I asked in distress.
He unwinded still further, my leg in the tin,
My body was free and it pinched on my skin.
It seemed that my leg was caught in the tin.
The Bald man straitened his mustache and knelt by my side.
The streets in the distance rose up to the skies,
The streets folded down and building collapsed,
A folding accordion into the back of his head.
With it went me, the tin, and my friends.
-Christopher Scott Munoz, August 2, 2008