I’m not afraid to say my body is a spectacle; a place for viewing. An arena’s dips and hooks, bowls of bone that founder and round like an amphitheater wouldn’t you say. Not to mention curved. Think of the events that have taken place in an amphitheater: county fairs with chickens and goats; bullfights; red cloth; gladiator combats and chariot races; the circus; haystacks and dew over grass and fog in the morning; the body as an open air venue for performance. I guess it’s easy to say that about oneself when things are looking up and the light through the window hits the skin this way, like the imperfect orange and yellow and red on an apple ready for picking. But some days I walk in on this amphitheater as though walking to my own execution, head shaved, the garment I wear is the last and white. Or there’s an indistinct choir harmonizing with the bathroom fan above my head, cheering me on or lulling me into some glazed over gazing. Other days an animal is killed inside me and another born almost immediately. The possibility of victory takes place here whenever blood is involved. Most of the time there is sweat. Some of the time I hold my breath seeing how still the night is and the moon waxing over it. Some days I can’t tell which. Other days, a dish for water, a pond as a result of the river flooding in, or place of worship. Seating capacity: 60-100 shuffling regularly from valve to valve, chamber to chamber. Ideal for some purpose; constructed for this.