the next great epic will be written
on dead moth wings culled from
the yellowing attic windowsills. 
as an attic dweller
i can tell you that your grandfather
was gayer than he thinks he was.
i find a portrait of a man in a bikini.
the man is no one i know but he is
my ancestor now. or else maybe
everything is a joke & always was a joke.
sometimes i also want to laugh
at my gender. tomorrow maybe
it will be a clown & we will stand
making balloon animals for the wind.
i once crashed my car & stood 
looking at the wreckage like a dead whale.
i was thinking "undo" "undo."
maybe if i had learned on a typewriter
i would have more acceptance of errors.
instead, the future feels like
it should be a word document. 
the cursor jumps rope. i hate poetry
about poetry because it feels like 
talking in the mirror. then again,
i love poetry about poetry because it feels
like a confessional where you are
the priest. can you tell i was raised catholic?
can you tell my father once 
beat me with a broom? can you tell
i will never not feel terror?
only pyrex people will tell you
"never say never." instead, i trust
the attic & the basement & the alley
collecting newheadlines we've all heard already.
the houses burn down. the bad man gets worse.
a boy is beautiful. the days fall into
one another & leave a clear cut forest.

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