The Balloon is an Anus

Caren Beilin

I used a balloon in a new way. I used it as the internet.
I put my face all my characteristics and proclivities into
it like air. 

I started to use a balloon as a vibrator. Interesting.

I started to use Donald Barthelme’s “The Balloon” in
all of my writing and it wasn’t that bad.

I used a balloon as a toaster, no good.

I held a mostly deflated one around some wood and
started a rubber fire, blackening la forêt.

I tried using a balloon as a trombone and that got
closer than balloon-as-toaster, much, much closer,
though a balloon doesn’t have a hole at its end by
absolute design and all of my sound went only into the
trombone making it fat not thin.

I used a balloon to break up with a paramour. I didn’t
like him at all anymore.

I’d been partying in Bergen, going to Jenny Hval
concerts in the dark forest drinking all of my alcoholic
milk drinks warm as my cup had been singled out by a
hopping bolt of fuscia lightning.

I called, from the Jenny Hval forest, this old love of
mine, who was worthless to me now, now that I was
in Bergen suspended there by millions of my own
dollars, and all I did was pop a balloon onto the phone
like the interface itself was a bed of pins. I am a bed of
pins, I pretended to confess to the phone.

I used a balloon as a replacement lung. I used a
balloon to practice all my blowjobs on first. I still
do that.

I used a balloon to hold up my head. A balloon was used in my brain transplant.

Find a new way to use a balloon. Because the world
can’t take your “helium” and “string” and even “pop”
gets too much attention.

I would not use one to cross the ocean. I would not
cross an armed balloon. I would not break up with just
anyone. A breakup is a lavishing of special attention. A
breakup is the frenzy of loneliness. The music of Jenny
Hval finds me in the forest. There is snow all over now
like wedding balloons stuck squeaking in the trees.
They don’t squeak for me.

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