Who I Be
I be the champion, the king, the Lord of the Rings. The trapeze artist, spinning netless.
I be anxiety, desperation, a kite in a sonic-boom sky. I be a trash can of confusion, the tiny bomb in the glove box of your get-away car.
I be a free trip to nowhere, the pay stubs in your pocket, the dirty pictures in your sock drawer. I be the patron of travel, a poor saint with a buzz on, trucking children across the wide river. I be the tachycardia that torpedoes your heart.
I be a cog in samsara, the prince of Bodhi, a beggar on a heat vent in Seattle An uppity curmudgeon. I be fashion’s scab skin, raw and bleeding under the glitter and hype. I be the answer to the question. I be the bogeyman.
The sun shrinks like a prune and stars rocket off into space. I be real. Reach out in the darkness and touch me. Why has it taken so long? Your hand on my face, my gaunt hand over yours.