It was the age of becoming, and I could feel
The blossoming of my insides with each breath.
The city’s flood gates had been closed by pranksters,
And we were all pressing against them in agony,
Wishing that the water would wash through
Our basements to clean our clothes so we didn’t have to.
But what was I becoming? you may ask.
To this there is no easy answer, although I drew
Straws with a stranger all night for the right
To obfuscate my response – all straws were equal,
Dammit! The field of creeping Bermuda grass
Is as close-cropped as an illuminated manuscript’s spine,
And I’m wearing a shirt that says, “I’m with Stupid!”
I’m alone, except for my company of solider ants,
Which have marched away with all my greenbacks.
I was becoming something; I could feel the change.
Perhaps I’ll stand on my hands and walk on god’s face?
It was no use – god was viewing a different stereoscope
At that moment, one where sailors ride an oil tank
Into the center of the street and begin to sell refreshments
To the pilgrim passengers of tour busses, who all agree
That sludge is much better in costal towns.
My feet are dangling from the white cliffs of Dover.
The sea is the color of the sky. I’ve become a poor sandpiper,
As I cannot blow a steady note through any plot of sand.
I’m becoming one with the illuminated mind.
I must have a nightlight or boogiemen tap dance
On my solitude until it’s trapped under my bed,
And I must become my own father and reassure myself
That there’s nothing there while also refusing to look.