fly high sharpie flag

this was supposed to be a filling-out
                    -the-tax-form kind of poem.
             
the end of travelling and the beginning of commuting.

gluing wings back onto dead gadflies,
   a backwards rendition of childhood.

now you will stick beak to broomstick,
       carve ships out of plastic bottles,
                  catalogue your little deaths.

but you won’t get there.

how, oversized &
    wrapped in plastic bags? first it’s

“mother when i’m separatist
   mother when i’m lobachevsky,” then

vsop, still no wisdom (hopeso,)

and let it scream.
and leave it on a tombstone like a scarecrow christ in rio:

           "how could anyone be
                   so magnificently,
                           brilliantly
                                     wrong"