The Stars Know You So Well

Another day, another increment
of life wasted—taken for granted.

The asylum walk through faded
walls and hallways and corridors.

We’ll all float on like muses,
Modest Mouse, on Mount Ida
singing for John Milton.

We’ll float like massive blimps,
like swollen souls exploding
and elevating—ethereal.

I don’t feel like a part of this
nation, this world, this life
when I’m here amongst
these people.

This isn’t me—
the bar isn’t me—

I’m just a figment of my
own imagination and yours,
flying through nonexistent
souls only to find them shattered.

I allowed eyes to fly through
my nonexistent soul, and I
severely want to say that I
never would again—

but I would.

The crass in me would.

I’m just the Great Freudian
Analysis of George and Lennie—
two halves that fit together
in the sky like a Pisces revelation,

I swim.