As if midnight were a thing you could hold in your hand, like a door latch and say, beyond this I step into my new socks and shoes and wherever I tread from hither to tither will be the definite, will be the new me. Beyond this door, mistakes are unwelcome. Where mishaps go to die. You’d need new legs, too. Footwear is never enough, and your own twin sticks can’t carry you perfectly any more than they ever have. Break em off at the hips and stand them aside, in the corner like umbrellas, and then there’s a chance, but it’s still unlikely, son. There’s more to walking than legs. Them swinging arms provide not enough balance, especially on your new tottery, doddering stilts. Better upgrade. A funambulist’s pole threaded through shoulder sockets. Don’t worry about hallways, you can fit through sideways. And you can carry more, so long as it comes in plastic grocery bags, draped like curtains. But what if you’re drunk? Inner ear malfunction? Better twist off the head, take it out of the equation. Contract with Intel, a Pentium brain, two bright Nikon eyes and a Bose below your nose, karaoke’s a breeze.

And now here, the new year, the mechanical me, whose fuck-ups are checked at the gate like the weapons they are.

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