In vulnerable states,
like when a bird meets my gaze
or after a good knife fight,
I will sometimes admit to being a materialist,
with the small caveat
that I don’t know what material is.
I know what time it is,
but only when it’s the same time
as the broken clock in my forehead.
I like poems because prose is like a stranger
who grabs your tits and says “Hey wanna fuck?”
A little more subtlety if you please, good sir.
Can you not see that you are speaking to a lady?
Can you not see the crown on my head?
It is made of newspapers and stuffed bats with glass eyes
and the smell of fresh lawn clippings
and late nights rife with bad decisions.
A little decorum, if you please.
You want to know what I believe?
Fine. Here is what I believe:
I believe that life is like surfing,
except instead of a wave
you get a cluster of cells wrapped around a skeleton,
and instead of a surfboard
you get a jumble of hallucinating neurons,
and instead of a surfer
you get an empty broom closet
surrounded by an infinite expanse
of fractal empty broom closets
and the sound of babies laughing
from source unknown.
I move through life like a horny caterpillar
eating everything it sees and belching rose syrup,
then I open my face and pour words onto screens
and thousands of people tell me thousands of stories
about what kind of prophet I am
and what kind of god I must worship.
I can never understand what they’re saying,
but their lips, teeth and tongues are bedazzling.
I take my crown and my tinsel wire wand
and go surfing this hallucination’s armageddon.
I never know where I am going,
but I know it’s exhilarating,
and I know that there’s treasure
behind every eyelid.
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