I am trying to admit something

that’s true & won’t destroy me

but the fact is everything

that has occurred has led

to my new blue haircut

which is the same haircut

I had before. Now

I am a poet, which is to say

I am my own first person

narrator, arranger of bricks

in a neat stack. I do not know

if I am building a wall or something

I can use to smash

the windows of non-feeling entities

like banks & the people

who are supposed to love me

& don’t. What could have prevented

this? I started out like everyone else:

a non-ghost iteration everyone tries

to keep from crying. By the time I moved

to Coral Gables, it was already

too late. The problem has always

been a problem of voice. A doctor

says my tongue is too big

for my mouth. The airport

has never been closer. I move

closer & closer when each lease

runs out. I am beginning to believe

gravity is just another line break.

It’s not that hard to take off. Yesterday

I read how scientists are learning

the language of mushrooms, who emit

bolts of electrical pulses in patterns

resembling vocabulary. They think

the mushrooms are mostly talking

about food, but they don’t know

to whom. It might be to no one.

I was hungry & now I’m not. Time

is what can’t be edited. It means

your life is someone else’s consequence.

Full responsibility slides over the hips

like a new pair of pants. I am done

counting the numbers of my body.

Seconds feel like nails, the days

like hammers. No one ever says

what you’re building but what it is

is home. I think about calling

you on the phone. I hold this heavy

block. It’s filled with every word

& almost none of them come out.

Back to the wall, I cannot tie

my own blindfold. You could be

an executioner’s mercy. Hide

from me what is scheduled

to kill me. Show them the crime

of my existence, where to aim.

I am ready to own it: what I want.

Somewhere, it is somewhere else.

Someone else is somewhere

growing lichen on a tree.

The tree just keeps sighing,

waiting for the sky to stand. 


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