showerthoughts

2019

on the telly, i see three hundred
and ten little indians, all falling down.

i wonder if someone would interrupt
algebra with a desert eagle.

i think of the ant i just stomped on,
if it has an iv-dripped mother.

i hear horns beyond the tiny frosted window,
from equestrians on steel unicorns.

their wheels gallop with hopes, fears,
wanting food, people, or memories.

when a tune brushes my lips,
i reflect on the mute.

when i dry my hills of flesh,
i contemplate the lepers.

i step out of the bathroom,
and prayer air fills my mouth.

i return to a java chip frappucino;
with not enough whipped cream.