daisy petal roulette

 

i sweat bullets like

john rambo’s M60,

soak through

my mortal polo

and slave slacks.

i slip in

my hush puppies

on the saltwater

shells saturating

asbestos terrazzo

in the sweat lodge

hallways of the

elementary of my

employ. and all

the merry

meanwhile, in a

humane, air

conditioned prison

cell our taxes built,

a comfortable

pedophile

punches the

clown and

pictures preschool

pornography

without recourse.

i think about failing

my drug test at the

hospital as my feet

find themselves

above my head,

which incidentally

splits open like

red velvet curtains

and spills a story

on the stage of

my humility with

the unfettered

urgency of a

starving street

urchin with an

empty cup.

the spotlight

lands on a

booth by a

window in

a diner, she 

and i forever

across from

one another. 

hank willliams’

my heart would

know, filters

into the room

through tiny

tin speakers

scattered

around the

ceiling tiles

like lentigo.

her eyes like

eagle feathers,

grizzly fur,

wonka’s

chocolate river,

mine like

seychelles’

water, billie

holiday,

shiva’s skin

on fire. 

“what would

you think of

me, if we

met today?”

she draws a

breath and

gives me an

answer in

which she pins

an epilogue i

can’t argue

with on our

relationship.

and i want to

tell her i don’t

miss what we

had then, like

i like what we

have now, but

instead, i talk

about other

women. it’s

like how i no

longer sing in

the car.

i tell her my

assemblage

point is loose,

that i’ve

dreamt

myself

asleep, but

this doesn’t

make her

love me any

more. so, we

pay our bill

separately

and go our

separate

ways. and i

tell myself

it’s fine we’re

not setting the

woods on fire,

i can dream

another, and that

the suffering is

beautiful

because

it’s so well put.

still,

the story i know

with great

intimacy stands

before me

a stranger and

i am tortured

by my failure to

simply

introduce

myself.