there is a small thrill when someone realizes i am alive
let alone real
like this reality permeates me
weaves me into itself
to where i cannot wriggle free
and now i live a humble existence
day by day with dirty shoes
and a Fucked ego
when poets describe locations
like wind-swept moors
there is a parallel universe
and a parallel poet
describing a location
like a bargain motel room
with a spider
strolling over a semen stain
like the spider is irving berlin
and the semen is park avenue
when the strands of reality
wither from time
and i emerge from it
like a cellophane monster
i will be showered in gin blossoms
and celebrate
my one big day off
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