I am writing this poem with my right hand
I am writing this poem with my left brain
I’m drinking Coca-Cola
I’ve recaptured the parts of myself I like the best.
Once upon a time when rolling stones gathered very little moss the notion of absolution troubled me very little; now I wrestle with it like Jacob wrestled with a curious angel or Elvis wrestled with another ill-fitting jumpsuit.
Once upon a less exasperated time I was both the sheep and the wolf and didn’t concern myself with the clothing worn on my back like a suicide or fashion risk.
I am writing this poem in Paper Mate Med. PT. black ink
I am writing this poem with my own red blood and white semen blurred into the mix
My glass needs refilling
My personhood is sick and tired of being left out in the unmitigated cold by toxic assets and leap years too tired to leap.
Rapunzel is in the tower with her newly shaven head and reaching her will obviously not be possible nor plausible in these times of banks too big to fail and children attempting to blow themselves up because their IPod-ideologies have gone on the fritz.
I am on fire and feel no actualized pain
I am out of breath and ready to take a much needed nap.
January 9, 2010