Listen,
I want to rewrite myself to be more
like the many-colored coats I wear;
it should be easy since I don’t believe
in a soul, or any unchanging sense
of self anyway.

Listen,
I want to love and not give in
to despair, but
every day I’m despairing.
All I can do is sneeze and hope
it’s because someone’s thinking of me.

God—
give me the strength
to channel my agony
into something productive,
like getting skinny
or writing grants to the NEA.

Listen,
I want to get to the point
where I don’t need to
write poems to live—
where I don’t have to
wrestle always with this
oiled menace
lurking in my chest.

Listen,
I got to find an Iggy Pop
Lust for Life at a garage sale
that no one’s using.

God—
it’d be nice to be immortal
like Mick Foley, but
I’d have to have
a Mick Foley Death Wish—
a Mick Foley Courage to leap
from the top of my cage
and walk away.

Listen,
Find me in the dark
graywash ghostly,
not yet fleshed out
in color.

Listen,
the birds are singing.
I should be sleeping, but
I’m awake.

God—
I’m sorry, I can’t put on the face
that makes the small talk.