The fence leans chaotically
into and out of motley yards.
This is a portrait of the temporary.
Facts tell us
that the day was created to suit me.
But it’s not the day.
There are oriental carpets,
packed like freight train cars
carrying rats that departed from my ears,
rats with green itchy fur
and globules of yellow, oil-like poisons.
My mind pushes the deadly cement trucks
to run over the willowy carpets.
And balloons carrying fireworks
throw fire into their cavernous bodies
so they can get up to oversee my eager rats
sailing into a flaming sunrise
that cleanses the city dump
and sparks the stray dogs
with will to live.
We can ask shyly about tomorrow.
Or we can fly deep inside the lush, May grass
brought on by polar rains
that worked diligently to drown me,
to finally finish me off,
in the yellow shit from my rats.
The rats may be playing with the sun.
But today, the sun is mine.
Today is my second day
allowing that yesterday
was the first day.
Yesterday, my entire body counteracted
despair made from an insane state
very near death,
very near the end of a line,
and I cannot tell you now
if I ever lived before yesterday.
I may never get a third day
so for now,
I strip naked
and I dance wildly
on the roof of the old 7-Eleven store
on the corner where the car horns are busy
and the unused grass blows gently,
undisturbed by the heat
from the blacktop.