I was OCD before it turned to a crime scene.
I catalogued the perps and deadly T-bones
against the colorful cityscape. I waltzed
these streets with my telephoto, anxious
to make high-speed auto-focus into a dream.
I came across bar tops contaminated
with cold sweat and rusted-out house keys.
And everyday I rode the bus home with
an old man believing he was alone.
I was full of carbonation long before
the bubbles rose in my beer.
You could build houses on
those little pockets of air,
if you were small enough,
and ride one straight into the mouth
of The Beast—where I’ve always
wanted to make it appear
as if I catapulted myself
right after she screamed my name.