Camazotz, revision 4

[Todd]

Hi Lizzie,

A lot of high points in this one. I love the title. I could either take it as the true nature and dark underbelly of the speaker, or a warning not to stick our heads too far out of our manufactured sameness for fear of getting them bit off.

I play a part. I wear it like a dress while I sweep--I keep wanting to combine this into one idea.
and whistle like Cinderella with her mice,
but dressed better and less maligned.
Strike that, we can't keep rodents;
the HOA is prejudiced against pests. --funny sets a good tone for the speaker's voice
So, we get presentable pets,
not hissing cockroaches or emperor scorpions. --Like these choices
That's for outlandish people--You could have went with numerous modifiers outlandish helps set the tone.
who fail to assimilate. --In the US we have always been a borg culture. Remove your distinctions you poor huddled masses who come here.

We all look mass-produced here, --I would consider reversing your first two strophes and opening here. This is my favorite part of the poem. This all has a Pete Seeger Little Boxes feel to it minus the colors.
like God got a discount
buying the million pack of humans
in cool summer neutrals—--Great line
Ecru Mushroom, Pinot Grigio, Serengeti Sun.--Good neutral choices
I should buy my dresses wholesale too, --This dresses line would lead well into Cinderella if you switched the strophes around.
the family pack, so I don't ever run out --like the break with the next line
(on everyone).

Our houses coordinate
for similarity pleases the eye,
But exactness bores—the horror!--I don't think I'd break the fourth wall here. I'd just consider hitting home with the observation.
Fantasies of originality actualize
as we paint our garage doors
a slightly different shade of cafe au lait; --Love the idea in the last three lines especially
together, we're a perfect palate.

I play a part, becoming one
with this stage set of Baja Beige,
weather-proof, composite siding.
My parts are: The Perma-Smile,
The Calm Mom, The Breast Who Doesn't Sweat.
I've learned my lines and knocked on the doors
of my characters' minds,
but we can't connect.--the existential tragedy of it all

What would Bukowski say?
“Whine, whine, wine.”

You're right, Charlie, I shouldn't complain
since the drone life is smooth
and there's abundant company
among rows and rows of common blooms,
no less beautiful for being clones.
We're a North Dakota sunflower field,
all smiling up at a humdrum sun.--These last four lines are nearly a poem in themselves.

It holds together well and I find the voice engaging.

Best,

Todd