The dirty water in the dirty dishes,
the smelly banana in the smelly trash,
the messy blankets on the unmade bed,
the rolled clothes in the open suitcase, I
lay on the new carpet, I
take off my cap (put it on the cap-shelf), I
create a “Genius playlist,” I
file my 15,000 KRW’s for next time.

The novels are years I wrote in those parallels,
The years are novels I write in these poems in songs.

We middle-agers surprise ourselves in our 8-bit menus,
The levels we have beaten or have beaten us
become tribute to our red, wind-beaten faces.
Our tears dry as they come, the years, novels
that we flip through to find the underlines but never reread
while writing new ones. We edit as we go.

The wildfire is contagious! It eats all and leaves none.
Our beds are barely slept in and our landlords love us.
The air is fresh when we move, but when we stop,
we get slammed by the bus carrying the losers from pageants past,
banners become nooses swinging the wreckage we kicked dirt over.

But the stories come. Oh, there is not enough ink for them!
There is no shelf so strong for the binders of source material
that collect like cars in highway traffic, backing, beeping, busting for attention.
Only we are a space shuttle and have no time for earth-thing(ling)s,
we are artists and we don’t read our own history.
The life we bring is the life we take and the balance is a high wire act that
helps the people forget how miserable they are, or reminds them how miserable they are.

“The shape of the smoke we inhale
fills the fucked ships we sail
that no one else will captain
and no one will again.”

But you’ll not understand if you’ve nothing in your gut.
Eat! Eat our food. Drink our drink.
Mind not the dirt, the germs. We share our dishes!
Let Narcissus bury Narcissus and free your hands;
let those who shelve shelve themselves!