James Franco's face is getting wider
wilder over time.
his forehead is broadening,
his eyes shifting sideways, sinking inwards,
brow rising like a callus,
and becoming strong.
he's becoming a bird.
(gravity, hesitant, loosens its grasp.)
a man in transmutation into an aeriael, a raptor,
spike-taloned, and vision sharpening
to capably fix upon scurrying rodents detected from heights in the air,
maybe soon he'll leave the ground to solely inhabit an avian home in the clouds
or, in a conspicuous fit of zugunruhe, fly south,
a gorgious halo of feathers framing avian features where once there was hair,
anus and penis rejoined to form a plain cloaca,
bernoulli forces enabling aerobatical feats
about which an actor might only have prev'ously dreamed.
what strange kind of films will he make now?
what cineastic narratives await reckoning 'tween feedings on field mice, and voles devour'd,
enabled by a fantastic change of state?