I think of us and how my mind
puts us so easily in peril.
It’s like we’re in some
silly horror film, an old-fashioned
cinematic showcase for intense
I tell myself these are the things
that are likely to happen
and these are the things
that are not,
yet my mind rides its fast car
toward a faint sunset filled
with evil maniacs and hideous demons.
Their servings of menace and mayhem
are epic when what I desire
is something smaller in scale,
generous when what I wish for
is a more fortunate ounce of greed.
I stop and park the car in a dark garage
that may swiftly collapse
after I cough into my fist,
very likely a sign of something gone awry,
because I am held together so delicately
like a dandelion held in a child’s hand
or a clean house on a stormy day
when everyone walks in at once
from the rain.
And I am a genius of angst
and trepidation, a man growing slightly older
who would rather be a genius of love,
singing softly, sweetly,
to everyone I adore
who stands tall or sits,
or lies down with
shallow breath on this spinning earth–
pressing the keys, plucking strings
made of steel or gut,
banging the drum
the way lovers dance on warm, bare skin.