I guess I could discuss phantoms and pharaohs
and the places in between them,
or rhyme schemes and what is palatable.

it’s been weeks
of perpetual reflection.
I’ve been told I run miles,
     countries worth.
but my allergists says
asthma and menthols
gifted me the lungs
of a sixty-one year old.

these new god-forsaken questions
nascent from distant textbooks,
fodder for all my sprints,
growing in all these springs.

why do emperors eat dirt,
why do poets bathe in it?
is there an ethical way
to eat a banana?
are cave paintings blogs?
how can you lie to millions?
why can you lie to yourself?

middle school and an army of teachers
march across my spinal cord.
they had hoped to prepare me
for this moment in history
with lessons in monkey-bar bullying,
and glorified despots.

a ghostly gash
          all that remains
I’m afraid it’s too early to know
          ask Faulkner
if i’m just being honest,
the present doesn’t know shit

***

Photo by Jametlene Reskp on Unsplash