Nights spent here, lost in the seclusion
of a house that sits inside a fish bowl.
The wind sometimes blows open the gates,
but not often, most of the time the
weather is whatever the engines of the
little airplanes are breathing.

Most of the time the date is forgotten,
for the moment, and nobody really
mentions in conversation that it is indeed
the twentieth, and yes, you missed
the deadline.

That's where the poem ends, and
everybody says, "what the hell is
this supposed to be about," until
you realize that everybody else is you
and you are indeed not everybody,
at least, not in a conventional sense.

Sometimes you buy the wrong pen, and
the pen runs out of ink too fast, then dies
inside a pencil sharpener hell. God takes it,
though, because I think so, and that's
reason enough to commit genocide.

02/21/2007

Posted on 02/22/2007
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