Camazotz, revision 4

[Quixilated]

Hello Lizzie, I love this!  Fantastic title choice, by the way.     

We all look mass-produced here,
like God got a discount
buying the million pack of humans  OMG, YES!!! This is an excellent description of suburbia.  It could even be it's own little complete poem: "Suburbia: it looks like God got a discount on a million pack of humans."      Yes.  I can just see him going down the aisle, of some celestial version of Costco, "Giant pack of underwear ... check. Year's supply of kidney beans ... check.  Oh look!  The million pack of humans are BOGO today!!!"  Anyway, all that to say, yes to this line.  
in cool summer neutrals—
Ecru Mushroom, Pinot Grigio, Serengeti Sun.
I should buy my dresses wholesale too,
the family pack, so I don't ever run out
(on everyone). I love how you did this too.  The whole first stanza is a light hearted and then just two little words hidden away in parentheses like a whisper almost bring it to a halt.  But then, just like all problems in suburbia, we ignore it an move on.  

I wear my part like a dress while I sweep
and whistle like Cinderella with her mice,
but dressed better and less maligned.
Strike that, we can't keep rodents;     Nope, no mice allowed.  
the HOA is prejudiced against pests.
So, we get presentable pets,
not hissing cockroaches or emperor scorpions.
That's for outlandish people
who fail to assimilate.  Love this nod to all the Disney princesses and their weird sidekicks.  

Our houses coordinate
for similarity pleases the eye,
but exactness bores.
Fantasies of originality actualize
as we paint our garage doors 
a slightly different shade of cafe au lait;
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.

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,  Yes!  all perfect all the same.  
all smiling up at a humdrum sun.

I play a part. I wear it like a dress while I sweep
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.
So, we get presentable pets,
not hissing cockroaches or emperor scorpions.
That's for outlandish people
who fail to assimilate.

We all look mass-produced here,
like God got a discount
buying the million pack of humans
in cool summer neutrals—
Ecru Mushroom, Pinot Grigio, Serengeti Sun.
I should buy my dresses wholesale too,
the family pack, so I don't ever run out
(on everyone).

Our houses coordinate
for similarity pleases the eye,
but exactness bores—the horror!
Fantasies of originality actualize
as we paint our garage doors
a slightly different shade of cafe au lait;
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.

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.

I'll keep reading it over and see if any potential changes jump out at me.  But first go over, I love it.  

--Quix