real heroes

a guy named barry at cvs keeps

calling me love, looks at my id and says,


don’t worry; you still look good.

i know he’s messing with me, but i


just want to get my wine and toilet

paper and go home. it’s the same


guy that tried messing with my girl

last week. i feel like i should make a


scene, but i don’t. i think the words

me too as i angrily shift away.


religion claims to save you from

the abyss, but religion is the abyss.


thank the gods for the creatives;

oh how we need the creatives.


we came out of the beautiful black

water—wet and fresh and squeaking:


a bull’s eye in the midst of the

mess. babies don’t have to care.


years later, i’m wearing my suit of

wet clay; i’m swinging my rudder


to wide extremes across a wide sea.

at the end of the journey, it’s just me.


i can feel the light shedding;

i can feel the need to flee.


real heroes don’t

feel like heroes