magickal thinking

there is a tulip in the space shuttle
trying to talk to me.
sometimes i will move my hand
& worry i have caused
a car accident. i never asked 
to have god blood. an ancestor
hundreds of years ago
bit the neck of goat 
& drank until he was holy. 
or else maybe he sacrificed 
a finger, i never remember. 
all i know is that the mailbox 
has been spreading lies about me.
once, for weeks, i thought 
the old ladies at the bus station
were waiting for me to leave
in order to start talking 
about my hands. i look for evidence
my thoughts are real. to be an oracle 
is to dig wells wherever you can.
as a child i was furious
& broke every fallen twig i could find.
that overturned a yard tree.
paintings fall from walls. doors
off hinges. i like to be 
a little wonderfully deranged.
i know if i were born in a different time
or just in a different place
there might be special kinds
of lock boxes for me. there might be
machines to try to unwind me 
from my skeleton. instead, i wander.
bless everything blue. 
i try to talk to glasses of water
& sometimes they talk back. there is
so much wisdom in the mundane.
everything is a symbol 
if you have a head made of jupiter beetles.
i catch the sun just right.
glint. gleam. then open my wings 
& fly in my madness.