Slapping my palms on the pavement
when no gold coin ever appears.
Skunking my face inside out constantly. Glory
running the day nobody must see me for me to be me.
I’ll begin without a beginning:
I didn’t want to be here to begin with.
No, I’ve been an epistemic catastrophe.
I’ve asked him to knock me out, to run me over.
I’ve asked to watch as he does. I’ve asked
to be nothing —my blue-wish of anticipation—
done this as to be a proxy for his
care. I am a rickety vessel.
A seaborne surrender. I’ve asked to be this everywhere
as grocery stores in this world are loud oceans too.
All I’ve wanted is to paint every TV screen
black and thrust my fist through the glass.
Now I long to play my life: minus errant scenes
without all this produce up for sale.
Me? I’ll pick up the joystick.
I’ll weather every encounter if it means
not having to sit and stay. I’m seeking
excess. I’m wanting more.
Wanting some other universe where I do
more than seek and hide and bleed.