When my dreams come true,
I will be a made man!
                                              Until then,
                      batty clamorous clucking,
narrow hostiles
                                           seep through
every orifice on my body,
        through-and-through
                   my side-stapled utopia
undeniably filmed by peeping toms
like “educational TV”
             suffering its fate
                  like a deflated raft
           of Divine Comedies
                                               gone sour,
        so I make myself make
           photographs of my achy
naked body alchemy—
                         the window celebrating
not my image;
                                    I hold my skull
                                   to my midsection,
but like pork chops
of tongue-flicking hunger,              light
             erupts my meaty consciousness,
               scrambles the atmosphere here
           in the cold like frozen strawberries
stuck to my haymaker,
                                                    I mean
                                       my fleshy torch,
                                                    I mean
            like riding on Zeus’s thunderbolt
        because I’m a myth-maker!

      The bridge to nowhere knows where
I am.                                 Icy wind parts
my spirit            like a barber’s precision;
wrinkled lemon peels
                                   stuck
                                           to the ground
                and I think of how just “being”
                slips towards Poetry;
steeples oddly alone,
my tender inner thigh
                                   cramping;
someone delighted by the sight of it
in my evergreen neverland.