Sometimes I will see people
who are paid to say beautiful things
and think “I could say beautiful things.”
Cue the unfinished canvas in the garage.
Cue the demo tape that sounds like mummies having anal sex.
Cue the poems that make people throw their orange juice at me.
So my next question is who are they talking to?
Who is the beseecher’s beseechee?
This phantom muse on the other end of the microphone?
Cue the swinger timpanist.
Cue the Gay-Only-On-Wednesday phase.
Cue the cockatoo, turtle, chinchilla, and electric eel, all dead.
After all this questioning I must conclude
that I am speaking to myself, to the lint
lodged in my belly button. They say navel-gazing
like it’s a bad thing. They haven’t heard the echo in that depression,
the crater that once connected us to another.