The Wild

Air slips through the forest
thick with howling.
The heads of trees guard the sky
from my desperate eyes.
Darkness wraps around
my hand.

Now I reflect on the dying
car, the clogged freeway,
not getting my promotion.
And Lena, filled with clinging
images–based on the neglected
text messages–curses me
for running-off with the barista.

I walk alongside my roommate
from college, “life is like a forest,”
the bush rattles him out. I stop
and change direction. I’ve changed
my direction before. Now it’s a poem
that glows before me. You must change
your life.
I didn’t need this, I didn’t.
I would have changed.

The Rockstar

Is doing one of his shows
at some actor’s party.
Wired by the hollering
and disgust, he scales down
the actor to a bloodied lump.
A girl asks him to leave–
he laughs.

And he also sees himself
in ten years, following
the puppet comedian
at one of those bars,
zipping-up a leather jacket
to hide his bloated self, pushing
beer through his throat
before singing the classics.