I am the young girl running around the house,
looking for the pony,
on Christmas morning,
while the ship is slowly sinking,
in a manure flavored sea.

I am the armless tennis player that
is convinced he will defeat Roger
in less than an hour,
using just one ball, over and over again.

I am Roy Wright at the beginning of the trial,
with a big stupid smile in my pocket,
and a tinny black book in my soul.
I am the faithful survivor of unfaithfulness
and I will be the one that lands on his feet,
in Scottsboro heaven.

I am Bartolomeo V, the one with no vendetta,
having a croissant,
waiting for Nicola to shave, before we take off in one of
Rothko's paintings. May the 5th be
with the ones who actually did it.. and, you know what?
I honestly think Cronaca Sovversiva is a great title,
even though I haven't read the ******
thing and I have no sympathy,
whatsoever, for any anarchist.
Hell! It's hard for me getting my **** together in complete order. I don't want to think what would become of me
in complete anarchy.

I am the one that wakes up every day
with a stupid smile under his nose,
not remembering the scent of yesterday's failure.
The one that starts dreaming as soon as he gets up,
ignoring the fact that he might be an ignorant
*****,
with no desire to go to outer space,
but with huge hopes up his sleeve for
M. Damon and his agricultural knowledge.
I am in favor of all fancy schmancy Earth saving knowledge,
and I am aware that all that space debris in my head
will do some serious damage one day.
If they ever figure out how to get it all in.

I am the tic, that will come after the tac-toe, this time, and not the other way around!
the encore of every good concert,
the yin for the panda ****,
the slim leg for the flamingo,
the gambler,
the rambler,
the day rider.

I am the Syrian boy that just learned to swim and
all of this infinite blue soup
is nothing more than a Saturday stroll.
I will get in the back of that truck and I will breathe
the purest air that someone could ever breathe,
I will sleep the sleep of reason and monsters will not be produced.

You have my word!

I am the skin before the needle shoots up
all its ink.

I will be perky. I will be green.

From my window,
in corner of an eye,
see a pink flamingo.

Broad curves,
into familiar shape,
grounded legs,
Iron weighted.

Been there
for years,
quietly sitting,
amongst roses.

Pushed by storms,
changing winds,
yet surprising,
inner strength.

Retains balance,
keeps small piece,
staked out,
of much larger plot.

Slowly losing,
it's distinctive hues.
Dissolving,
fuchsia to palest pink.

Every family
has their own,
pale pink flamingo

these promises
that are meant to
last forever.
I lie.
I hate the way you hold me,
so harsh yet gentle.
its like watching
a pianist's fingers while they
keep me high.
forgetting you.
emptiness that would be forgotten
like you do.
I will swim inside you
until i find the star
that will start making
flowers grow on my head.

I will crawl till the finish line,
get out
and start from the beginning.

Stand over my heart like a flamingo
(I dislike sturdy traffic cones, anyway)
As you do so, peer into the well for the calculator I dropped
It's there somewhere
Lord, I hope you can fly
Because I can't help but push your stubborn form
Over the edge like this