My first battle with the Giant was a strange one. I was a poor coyote selling drugs so my girlfriend could afford an abortion. Then I grew a mustahce, shaved it, used the hairs to build a black mansion just so I could describe it in a spooky poem. Now I am covered in curry powder, and my head is a volleyball. Also I feel like I am in the exact center of nowhere, some great nowhere, like the Great Hungarian Plain, if it even exists.
Now is not a good time.
That’s what I want
tattooed on my forehead.
When I do need companionship,
sex, or money, I can
say its ironic, or that I brim
with hot optimism.
No offense. But no world
can yank at my ear lobes.
I spent all afternoon
reinventing the word universe,
and then rearranging the wheelbarrow,
which is now the word for a starlit sky.
Seriously, my heart floats like a ghost
following a former wife
around the track at the gym,
which doesn’t interest me.
And my mind blinks like
a florescent banana begging
tourists to have one more drink
before they visit their lives again.
So, don’t worry about it.
I’m not mad. You’ll probably never see me mad.
I am neither forlornly profound.
I am an animal that must hibernate
for at least three months a year
just to remember what dreams are,
and that there is no better time than now.