I was born.
I was born male.
I was born white male.
I was born white, male Caucasian.
I was born white, male Caucasian in a Republic.
I was born white, male, Caucasian, in a First World Republic.
I was born white, male, Caucasian, in a First World Republic,
     in a large, loving family.

I was born white, male, Caucasian, in a First World Republic,
     in a large loving family, and I'll never work as a talking head.
Why, tell me, do all the others have all the luck.

I hope one day it’s just a memory and not an activity.

Open says me,
Open says I,
Open says heart

We cut when we’re not brave enough to die, just yet just yet

Striking like a match or unforeseen jumpscares I feel it dull;
it bubbles and broils within the delicate dead cells of my skin

Sudden like when the sky opens up and cries on new pavement
the road begins to flood oil and water don't mix, and you wonder why your mind conflicts with every inch of you as if your soul is being stretched towards space but a body can only stretch so far —
noncompliant.

I flutter against gleaming windows and it feels heavy;
I dance around conclusion like a jester in merriment.
I evade like a thief within a crowd ever keen ever stupid;
I play amongst champions my hands mouth and heart dwell with them.

Tumbling I speak many things, and many things still yet fall on my ears.  I am suddenly deaf and many things become constant a neverending stream a verbatim.
Now I speak most silent —
I rip my teeth out

I see your picture
reading through the same
yoga, cooking, and travel
version of a person
trying to cast a wide
net
instead of focusing
on the truth inside

Where does the end lie?
All I know is that
I’m alone
and want to share
the experiences of
a life
dare to explore the soul
and the fire

In this place
The air is so dry that water sulks.
The sky is a viscous brown mosaic.
The sulfurous fumes of old suffering linger.

A woman stares as if trying to unsee creation.
Words on a man’s tongue sound
like rhythmic coughing.
At the only stoplight
the crosswalk sign flashes “Don’t waltz.”

Strangers recoil from me
as if from an embarrassing stain.

People stream to the town square
for some indecipherable ritual.
Probably a funeral for the sun
or a snake oil sale.

Welcome to humankind’s true garden.
Not paradise but a place of desolation,
and what comes after is not exile but striving
and getting the hell out.

So long, mom and dad.