What it’s like to be a bat

Something

that cuts,

proof of blood

my brother,

is what I seek,

proof of blood

to show me

that living exists

outside of the cage

that is

what it is to be.

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On a Day

On a day

like this,

early spring,

when the sun

shines strong

against the back

of your neck

and a chill

still

whispers in the air,

you assume

the form

of a tiger

smashing fruit

under

your dusty paw.

In the evening

when it grows

colder still,

it’s safer

to look

as the polar bear

looks,

a goodly gait

hiding a

terrible weight.

In the deep summer,

when you

as hippopotamus,

play and splash

in a slow stream,

take a moment,

looking at

your reflection,

and wonder

why you

never dream

yourself

a giraffe

or a

flamingo,

plastic tooth pick

thin.

Strike while the irony is hot

Where have all the round faced Polish girls gone?

Wild, I presume, like horses on the plain.

Who can catch them, look them in the mouth

and say,

“Stop here, for a sec”

Your shiny mane enthralls.

Is there a cabin somewhere,

on the rocky cliffs,

with a strong wind,

where we can be miserable together?

All i need, indoors,

is a chair,

a mat to make the ground less hard,

perhaps a bowl and plate and cup

made all of tin.

Make some lumpy stew for us

and i’ll go cut some wood.

and i’ll,

at night,

cram my face between

your long hair

and the whiteness of your neck.