Looking at a bird.
Looking at the moon.
Looking at a bird looking at the moon.
Sharing a cigarette with the trees
outside my hotel room.
Waiting for Pegasus.
Standing in my socks.
Finding a yellow knife in my coat pocket
that doesn’t belong to me.
Stabbing a beer can.
Dropping the knife in the trash.
Wondering what kind of bird
sings for a man waiting for a horse
that flies. This bird.
Wishing I’d taken more acid when I was young.
Imagining myself in armor in the pool
reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being.
Children a thousand years from irony
competitively splashing each other
for the prize of shouting, I Am The King.
Never be the king, I whisper from behind my face plate.
Everything is happening at the same time.
You are here and I’m in your bedroom
looking at your slippers. Why yellow? Why open-toe?
There are only surprises, including how little
I understand. My head is on fire
and I think it’s because I’m looking forward
to what’s on TV, when the truth is, fire
has to be somewhere, I have to be somewhere,
everywhere has to be somewhere, why not here?
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