Myopia, your opia, our opia

Look at me on the high trapeze / of my mood swings.

Floral Still Life by Hans Bollongier (1639)

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Myopia, your opia, our opia

by Bob Hicok

How many nowheres have I peddled to
and nothings seen on my stationary bike?
Too bad clapping's not more aerobic,
else joy and praise would keep me in shape.
I should have bought a stationery bike
made of letters home and to the editor.
"Dear Mum, It's been three years 
since I last stuck my head in the oven." 
Look at me on the high trapeze 
of my mood swings. I tried horse tranquilizer 
but didn't like the taste of hay. 
Exercise keeps a mind distracted from itself 
like dancing makes feet believe 
they're in charge. 
Working hard to stay in one place 
could be the most concise history 
of our species ever written, next to, 
Food and orgasms make the world go round.
Maybe I put my head in the oven 
because it's not fully cooked. Yes. That's it. 
And from now on I ride a real bike 
around the house. Stairs 
are the ultimate challenge, and Thursdays, 
and everything, for some of us 
who may be most of us, as far as I know 
from my extensive travels 
to and from and within the same space. 
My head just realized 
I'm secretly talking about it
and has asked me to leave. Don't worry.
There's only one real eviction 
in my future, and yours. 
I know we talk about it 
by talking about everything else. Like,
Fine weather we're having, eh? Or 
Look at those tulips. How clever of them
to hold heir mouths open in the rain.