eyes glaze at the screen with my image staring back
my upper lip is stiff (and sore from biting)
i feel strange today like
strange is the median point of my conscious state
this strange fruit from a northern tree
grew to ripeness in the shade of magnolias

i am so sick of the beautiful people
sick of knowing the names of the ones in the magazines
being just as alive in the same damn world
but invisible like a ghost
on film

am i a 5.8 on your 1 to 10
am i a bit too real to be your friend

i tamper with simple words
daring to extract a meaning
in an age of endless news tickers
one day some innocent-looking noun or adjective
might go off in my hand
or head
and leave my speech disfigured
but that’s the risk you run
as a poet
          i guess

i am so tired of this pushing and pulling
straining and crashing
tired of seeing nothing more or less special
in anybody else

am i even a blip on your radar screen
am i too unapologetic to make your scene

i pick at monolith thoughts
struggling to find an answer
in an age of sanitized information
one day the wrong question and topic
might put a bullet through my brain
or heart
and send my wonder to the grave
but then that’s the danger
of asking
          i suppose

fingers cramp from too much typing
legs ache from too much dancing
as if there could be such things
i feel odd today like
odd might be how i’m getting even
this strange fruit tastes too bitter
to mix with the pulp of their magazines

but then
that’s the fruit of being strange
          isn’t it?