I'm often an unenthusiastic witness,
Lying on plush cotton bed linens,
Asleep, and unknown to those outside,
In the deep black of the humid night,
To the puzzling images of a familiar life,
Stories that I know were never mine.
As the little hero of these fictions,
Prancing about in joyous delight,
Handshakes with those who matter,
Plaudits and bravo in timely manner,
Groping breasts as I massage her head,
In reels of film I dread when I'm awake.
Who writes these terrible screenplays,
Twisting life with myths and fantasies,
Surreal dialogues delivered in epitaphs,
In settings comical even when asleep,
Not to mention the absurdity of it all,
I desire to understand the nonsensical.
So I'm taken to the den of the Shaolin,
A young man who studies the monks,
By the whiff of destiny and a flight,
Throughout the day and into the night,
We talked about the halls of our past,
Our struggles living in artificial glass.
The very next night I was running naked,
On hilltops and white sands in euphoria,
Until I reached a pipe fountain where,
A bird that frightened me in the past stood,
Only to fly away into the sunny blue sky,
To let the pure water awash me clean.
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