The music’s rhythm is curved and tender

And the transcendent light is undulating in thought

And definitive in nature,

Accentuated by the November blues.

The slippery mildew has an authentic essence.

Magenta blood spills out of my cuts.

Why is it we fear the ordinary

But feel extraordinary?

The fathomless voice of the wind screams in my ear.

The tree shades shiver.

Did you know the rain wants to travel in boats?

And past time is frozen in ice?

And cigarettes burn the universe?

The splinters beneath me on the wooden bench.

Why don’t they ever replace it?

Gasoline fumes.

The smell of the dead future?

The cool of the trees’ shade,

The hot sun beating down in the nearby playground.

Why do the insects crawl on my book?

Long strands of hair glinting on my black pants.

Why are they russet in the sunlight?

I pretend I have no needs.

I don’t have to eat or drink or get tired.

But I still experience pain:

The ache in my shoulders because of sitting

In the shade

Of the tree

On the old wooden bench

For hours.

And I’ve already finished my poetry book

But I feel hungry and can’t resist.

I eat one small granola bar.

Do the flies smell the sugar on my breath?

Maybe if I convince myself I don’t have a desire to eat or drink

That means I’m not human.

Not being human means being perfect.

Why is it impossible to be perfect?

The old men sitting next to me on the old wooden bench

Have loud, harsh voices and talk about

Thinks that don’t matter, conversations that have no interest.

Why are their lives so boring?