Now, awaiting my thirtieth birthday,
I can never get rid of the depression,
because I still don’t understand baseball.
I wasn’t born an insect.
I cannot forgive my mother for that.
There is no efficient poison spray
for my kind.
I don’t listen to the radio anymore.
Everyday on the shortwave God gets
reborn as a voodoo doll
in the hands of a Nazi war criminal.
I can barely stand
the hysterical yoga practitioners.
They have found meaning. They live stress-free.
Bing Crosby, the Christmas torture,
I cannot think of enough disparaging terms
for all the bullshit humanity falls for.
I should be listening to Wagner,
but I cannot find any Wagner on my computer.
A woman will take my last name.
Our kids will be figurehead angels.
I will bring them handfuls of juicy, ripe oranges.
The house will smell of olive oil.
I would love to be perfect like the sea.