The Audit

I thought I had scurvy,
turns out, I had bad oral hygiene.

I went to a psychic fair,
paid fifty bucks for a spirit animal
I could have gotten from any carny
for twenty dollars in darts and balloons.

I bought a shave and a haircut on my birthday.
I was twenty five and learned Capone had big eyes,
playboys never fade, and I had an irrational fear
of warm wet towels and strops.

I stepped out, proud and smooth, looking like Al Pacino
on a bad day.

I walked into a church and proclaimed myself Jesus,
I was looking that good — that day — O! Mary of the Lake!

I pissed on a ceiling in Valparaiso, young and Ahab.
I spat on my dad.

I danced with a Hoover,
a gift from my mother,
the only thing I’d need, she said.

I still wonder which — foxtrot or carpet?

I left black heel marks on new white floors,
dragged my feet.

I slouched cool, vague and hidden,
became smaller than minds.

The internal combustion engine,
though a closed system, still burns oil,
throws a rod.

I walked ten miles in the rain, once,
to tell my mother her new used car was dead —
I forged all the receipts.

When I took out my eyes,
there was sunshine and old gravy.

Image: Kevin Bergen on Unsplash