As we were riding and riding
down and up around
the old clock tower
we heard distant visions of
physical human contact
with extra terrestrial beings
from another dimension
inside the mind
of a poet sitting cross-legged
with a big red book, full
of upside down letters
and abbreviated punctuation.

He said that everything in the world
revolved around him
because he was a god
but I didn’t believe him
so I tried taking the book from him
to test his power
and all I can remember
is waking up here
with these torn out pages in my pants pocket.

They say words of math and science
but he was a poet
not a teacher
so I sat there wondering
when the poet would teach me math and ****
because apparently to make a haiku you need to know a thing or two about numbers.
Apparently the science is used for making the inks he uses to write.

The man and his trade
were one and the same.
His poems were his paper
as much as he was his pen
and everything was normal
again after he decided to stop
trying to separate himself from
that book.

Then I realized that he was me and those pages were
mine, he
always said that we would meet
someday, he came out for a masterpiece,
I found it written in blood on the back
of the math and science.

It was fantastic, an amazing piece of work.
Apparently numb can feel good sometimes.