My asshole’s on fire this morning.
A big swollen vein throbbing with every
heartbeat. It’s really too early to deal
with thoughts of such mortality.
I need perspective. Maybe distraction.
I walk to my rooftop.
The seascape’s gray,
at which point sky and sea
are separate is hard to say.
It’s all a single seamless color of gray.
A black seabird
hangs on what wind there is
tilting&just hanging there
until
it spies something in a wave,
curls itself into a fist
and slams into the water with a splash.
Seconds later
its head pops up like a cork,
beak empty, looking bewildered.
It swims in listless gray circles,
dreaming of sardines,
then slowly gathers itself
back into the inverted gray bowl of sky.
I stand at the edge of my rooftop
Wondering...
I lean forward&stare
down at the gray face of
morning commuters
as they smoke, gulp, and snarl
their way to work.
Maybe on this day, I might fly away?
I think of Florence&the mystery
of the Domo Cathedral.
No miracles, at least not today.
Not with my asshole burning the way
it is.
I walk back inside my apartment
feeling as unsatisfied by my hungers
as the black bird,
or as mystified by mortality as any ordinary priest.
