"My heart is a breadbox.
I once ate a village of 19th century binoculars,
and I ate a waterfall of neckties.
I ate a harp strung with hot vapor
and mysteries 47 unibrows.
And I ate a hearty salad of grass fed explosives
that eventually blew up in my face
and left me perpetually green.
I chose to run eight miles to eat the last breadcrumb
off death's bare shoulder, but no one
told me life was cyclical.
And now, I have shin splints.
Whenever I eat too much, I ruminate over
the same misshapen idea that reeks
of a damp Venetian slipper.
And when my aching head is under the bathroom faucet
for the sixth time in a week, understand
that I'm trying to swim somewhere far, far away
from here.
Just leave me there.
I once shoved a submarine that died of asphyxiation
into an old junior varsity football duffel bag
and bought a one way bus ticket to Bristol, Rhode Island.
Embarrassed to say, I was once a maritime antique collector
who stubbornly rejected natural selection.
Sometimes I litter despair along the oily flight patterns used
by commercial airlines and make bets
whether that despair will ever write back to me.
My heart is a breadbox, and all the birds
are pecking their secrets into my bloodstream."