okay but this-
i thought, as i read bad poetry in some literary tome
put out by folks who loved shakespeare
in that one play he was in
and who describe themselves as
and imagine they’re unique-
this is why
i hate what i do.
am i too arrogant?
the only person i know more rightfully arrogant than i
and i believed him
because i wanted to.
(the truth, as we all know
is hidden somewhere in the swamp
between my ears
charred, there is nothing left
but ego ash
and the rancid stench
last night, when the city was asleep
save for hookers and for drunken
we climbed inside a rhino made of
heavy steel ribs
peered out from his welded yellow eyes
i hung upside down, feet hooked on metal
swinging like the monkey
that i am
later, feet locked together, we leaned back against the rhino’s
looked up at the sky, counted stars
(or i did; i’m not sure he was counting
that’s really not his style)
and then satisfied, i climbed to the top
looked down at him below, camera pointed up at me
he made me smile
and forget to be afraid
of climbing up.
and arrogance is bitter, tastes like aspartame and fear
and when i sang like daria
he laughed and
made me disappear.