My spirit finally agrees to escape
the body and scoots back to the LA
bus station where waiting was a young
guy hunched over, covered with ink,
his forearm tattoo reading Never
Forget Tomorrow, and without checking
his ticket I knew exactly where he’d been.
I too have wanted my skin
to not be my skin, tried counting
to a thousand, heaving breaths,
woken paralyzed by I don’t know what
adolescent jeer, mental or material.
Years later that would be me
during a layover in Costa Rica
or some Central American country,
the craziest part not even realizing
your borders, after I fucked up
and checked my ex’s texts,
saw te amo written to a drummer,
threw after her a book that flitted through the air.
For anyone to see, my head hung
like a sumo wrestler piggyback,
crying slow fat wads of tears.
Everyone just minded their own business;
maybe we should mind our business less
to test these vessels on the open seas,
though obviously not by imperial decree.