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.