Self-Portrait at This Moment

I am a flat tire and this is how I roll.
These wings? They’re just for decoration.
I wake up every morning a little
disappeared. Deep in the forest
are trees that can throw their voices.
Now I’m a motel swimming pool.
Sometimes roses grow from a wound.
Sometimes is all I can manage.
These are my indoor voices. Let me
tell you about tonight’s specials.
Goldfish in a plastic bag. Windsock
in repose. Dust in all the crevices.
The thing about fingerprints is
you always leave them behind.
My first memory is crying in the dark.
Must everything be robotic?

Self-Portrait With Desiccated Bee Hive

Oh, how my heart is on fire!
Is this love or something I ate?
Either way there is no remorse.
Either way I’ll just keep nodding
my head and mumbling soothing
affirmations until the burning subsides.
Some habits can never be broken.
Like my lip that splits in the same place
every winter even though the punch
that birthed that wound was landed
years ago. According to you I have
been sleeping with the television
and drinking right from the bowl.
According to you I have been walking
backwards into moonlight and stubbing
my toe over and over again. I used to think
I was pretty smart but the seas are rising
and I can’t swim. We’ve all gone on a blind
date with no expectations. We’ve all been judged
and found guilty. Why is it no one thinks
they have to pay for anything anymore?
Don’t they know there are cameras
everywhere?