Delayed reality

A tiny bug died on my hand.

I don’t know if toxins in my skin killed it

or if it landed their to expire

but I looked at my hand and there it was—dead;

like when you obliviously cut yourself

and not until you discover the crimson streak across the front of your khakis

do you realize

that you’re bleeding,

then you look for the slit, find it

and the pain sets in

reconnecting with the nerves in your brain letting you in on the truth.

Inclination

I keep writing about sex and death

and cleanliness, intense

masturbation

there’s a lot of recurring stuff about aliens

the word oblivious keeps popping up

and other incarnations like oblivion

obviously, something is drawer me nearer

pulling me to the core of an idea

a truth burning sun-bright and blinking

like a ringing alarm never de-triggered

signaling the need for introspection—aliens and monsters, myself

a monster hidden but not within a closet

like some child’s small-minded comprehension

I roam the streets with half-smiles and rumpled preppy clothes

my audible responses to civilization and order

and the general way of the world are just as nonchalant

I’m a charlatan

a less-hirsute orangutan with bright eyes

flitting, fearful of making contact and finally

letting my guard fall down to the floor

and saying all those things

that otherwise stay

ink-stained on my tongue.