I hear the wind blowing behind me,
through the sliding glass door
throughout my immediate world.
This little square
of computer, notes, drugs and boners
is my right now, but like all those things,
I want it to get bigger.
Broaden the horizon
for my ilk, my profession,
my love, my hard-fought life,
in which I squirm and send textmessages.
Phone calls at night
mean nothing but mean everything,
and come Thursday, who knows.
I like the sound of the rustling,
because it means autumn is blowing in,
and like every season, it will forget me,
but change me.
I move to the couch
and hear the same woosh and whirl,
a symphony of sawing fingers
changing the trees like me.
Soon, I will smell it
when I open the door
and toss my words out there like a litterbug.
Soon, I will find another inspiration
to take over my squat, square, immediacy,
and then I will eat dinner or die,
the choice is mine.
Say goodbye to the rustling future,
and don't touch the feathers,
because they are filled with bacteria
and I have seven cuts on ten of my fingers.
I'll go straighten my back
and jerk off in the hallway,
hoping leaves fly in when I open the door.
However small,
however tall,
I am just a silly man,
listening to the wind.