This is me, depressed1 out of my mind,
frailing the banjo, spilling red wine
on the white
king-sized
luckily-hotel's-and-not-my-
goose down comforter, this is me
walking and waxing nostalgic through the girlish shadows
of tall palm trees, the deja vus
flying through the scene
suddenly, like those three
unnameable and therefore beautiful white birds.
This is me as a slowly-tearing-itself-apart cloud
and marveling
at a fire palely and flamily
emerging from a bowl, wavering
up through stones of cobalt glass. The air
wavers back. This is me in love
with the beauty of blue glass in flames, this is me on drugs
prescribed by my doctor
as I try once more
to sneak2 into night's closely guarded city,
my hollow horse ready
to wreak3 my demons4 and Blue Morphos
on the citizens of my sleep. I am most
myself when flashing rapidly
my iridescent5 wings, drinking
the juice of fallen fruit. Then again
look for me under your bed
where the ugly premodern vampires
still hide. The undead and I are lying
in wait. We are very interested in you
though this is still me. We are unstable6 and true.
We believe in the one-ton rose
and the displaced toilet equally. Our blues
assume you understand
not much, and try to be alive, just as we do,
and that it may be helpful to hold the hand
of someone as lost as you.