I don't believe
and it's because of me,
and the childish reproach
of Simon Bolivar dying
in his hammock.
Writers stood in line for centuries
hoping to unravel the sleep habits
of this sparse saint, that intriguing man.
I spent years exhuming
the remains of all my ancestors
searching for connections,
intuition of my mind's eye
sounds of the dead making toast,
the ruckus of crows playing dominoes,
while the polymaths of America
worried about their law degrees
and what beds it would take
to become a politician.
I don't believe in love.
My axle's teeth have all been wasted.
But this is not about love, bones, or scales.
It's about the boarding house
and a can of corned beef,
warm rain and trying to resuscitate
suicides at a sťance.
This is about riding a monocycle backwards
in traffic to stage happenings
wearing see-through clothes for Greenpeace.
It's not about global warming, or health care.
It's about fighting to get certified