these thieves

these thieves

they would have

loved to have found

this box of hats

the longest poem ever

the longest poem ever

begins when the ride does

down the small wave

tucked against the barrel

of an oil-tanker,

having rode in 12 miles

of salty, warm water

in a small, wooden bucket

amidst barrels of ice and beer.

A worse suburbanite? No,

A worse suburbanite? No,

I split myself

between trails cloaked in oak, pecking birds,

and deer shit,

and the odor of concrete, garbage cans, broken bottles,

and piss-stained shit-stalls--

I shut my eyes and exist

inside the middle, in neither,

urges to cut solitary cabins,

to rent one-room basements,

but my shut eyes open

and slam my head on my desk--

my shoes keep untying,

I keep dropping my things,

stacks fly off my hands and out of windows--

could I be eaten alive

do you think? could I be chewed?

decompose? be compost?

could I be mugged, raped, and shot?

could I be surrounded by yellow tape

and flashbulbs? dead on broken glass?