Handmade shark fin mooncake
strewn among the warheads,
red uni-ball pens, jolly ranchers
of my blue-eyed girls, and me,
with a hibiscus lemon tea burn
soothed by the Trader Joe’s box
of frozen chicken tikka masala
with its robust cream sauce
and cumin-flavored basmati rice.
I have been known to sprawl naked
on a lion skin in the good air of the alps,
to swim in the tears of gods,
to write of sunsets and pussies in emails,
to be fed green olives on a wooden boat,
yes, I have sipped Rosé in Old Town Prague,
but for what? The too much muchness
is too much for even the too much me,
all that hunger written in Sanskrit
across my face. Might I mention
the desert of my soul here, or would that
make you turn away? Where I come from,
even in summer, we burned our trash.
O, honey-tongued, yellow-bellied
Cheerwine sipper, slip slippery through me.
Yea, though we walk through the valley
of the shadows of the things, undress me,
with me, about me, beyond me, beneath
this sky so populated with birds and steel,
let us lay our muchness yonder.