Drunk On Things

God's dream broke into pieces of the world:
chairs, elevators, plastic bottles,
schools of philosophy, one woman's suffering.

Taking a nap any chance we can get, picturing a world
as we're pushed in our strollers, maglevs,
medicine, maintained dirt. Drunk on things

and wrapped in illusion, the trees these days
standing out of shape and wrong, concussions
lost in an indoor playground, the road back

strewn with defunct, ruined portals.
I see my botched likeness stumble through the world.
I see you, water, plastic, and light. In the waiting room

I see magazines and crucifixion.
Far from your nose, far from your mouth,
spinning in the darkness, it will never leave you.

I, a man of a cursed generation, now,
here, in the fullness of time,
four hundred and ninety-seven A.D.