Imbecile.

That’s what they call me.

It’s not my fault

I’m occasionally late

And stubborn

And forgetful.

It’s like a never-ending fall

Into my handmade cloud-

stuffed pillow stolen from the morning sky.

The alarming earthquake

Of my beloved black clock

As its hand punches its side and dances on my stand.

It’s like my head is on shuffle

Like an iPod on steroids.

What a wonderful wasted world.

 

Just yesterday,

On my crappy thirtieth birthday

I was born old.

 

Exactly twenty-six minutes late

To my own birthday

surprise party.

It’s not my fault

I’m occasionally late.

I was swimming

Through the air

On my perfectly shameful bike

Hovering

On the current of time.

 

But where’s the goddamn problem? You see

I’ll ask the miniature boy in my eye

Inspecting the world through a telescope.

 

It’s not my fault

I have provided a nest

For two caterpillars

To take over and live

Upon my forested eyebrows.

 

Everything.

It’s like I’m running a marathon

In one place.

Or the time

Only last year on my twenty-ninth birthday

When I killed a man

With my own ruthless steel thumb. But

Just like that,

I got a tattoo on my leathery skin

Of a watch on my wrist

So I could make sense of time

Twice a day.