Postcards of Me

I am a chimney sweeper, sweeping chimneys,
street sweeper sweeping the street;
I’m your dream keeper keeping your dreams.
Wake me up when the stork is gone.

I’m the man screaming love sonnets at
the post office. My romantic post-apocalyptic
poetry is popular with the machine gun girls.

Your lips on mine,
ziplocked like a sandwich bag.

If that baby is mine I’m going to have
to buy a new couch.

I’ll have to get a new job.

I’ll have to sing a different song.

And when you find yourself on the end of the pier
and it’s Christmas Eve and the city behind you
is just barely conceived, like the little baby Jesus,
and you spit into the black ocean and with it,
somehow, you think you leave it all behind;
but it’s not at all like that, not at all,
because you carry it everywhere,
oh, you can’t really leave it behind
like a goddamn colectomy bag,
you keep that shit
hidden underneath
your shirt.

And so we drift, like harmless embers
over a melting tundra. Burning is our
only purpose. And nobody does it
like we do it. High and dancing
in the serialized wind.
And when we die, we leave
a trail of desperate selfies,
our raw face at arms-length,
each one a breadcrumb,
leading back to the source.

And there it is, we finally figured
out a way to live in the clouds forever.

In these Postcards from Us.

Living in the Cloud forever.

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