by Adam Scheffler
A man cobbles together his life together
as best he can, skimming
these shark–abandoned waves
but must so many pastimes lead
back to head–butting the walls of the
padded self ?
In the next version, you’ll play a videogame
where you’ll play yourself playing yourself
And I hate how touching, we stop feeling the other
person’s hand so soon, our bodies assuming
there’s nothing there unless it’s new
The way a man shoves another dorito into his craw
Or a priest rips another black note from his
reptilian brain and slips it into the church’s
Once I too prayed to god, projected
my best self upwards and spread
it in the finest mirror–net over the nightsky,
looking back down on myself in bed.
Sometimes I still confuse women with goddesses,
or a dead sea–horse floating upside down
with the treble clef of my own happiness
But sometimes I better myself
by noticing things around me:
Look. Tonight’s ambulance spreads dancing jewels.
And across the park, circling the fountain,
two skateboarders have found rich
girlfriends and are balancing them in the air.