BEARDED AND BEETLED - henry vauban


henry vauban

I grew a beard to hide the beetle in my mind or the other way around. Black dogs aren’t always lonely and not everything that looks lost is lost. Only $9.99 limited time only always ends up dusty yellowed plastic at a flea market with all the other broken watches.

I wear codeine on my post-surgery foot and beetle to the bathroom.

I dress like Peter Pan hit by a sedan and pincushion my belly against thrombosis.

The neighborhood cats are fat but never allowed indoors. My neighbor bangs and bangs his house green but my utility bills are rising and the windmills keep turning and the coal keeps burning and whatever happens at nuclear power plants isn’t slowing down either.

“Yo can I bum a cig?” some kid asks me on the street.

I am made of money and giving cigarettes to kids is cool.

The audacity of strangers with outstretched arms not even pretending to be broken down and ashamed to beg.

I take stock of my mustard jar drinking vessels. I’d give one to a polar bear for his coat.

I kiss glaciers. We are the same.

Henry Vauban
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