Thursday, July 7, 2016

i do not have the time. i am very busy.

i will not take in a refugee. i do not have the time. i am
very busy. i am
starring in my very own movie.
the name of the movie is called "my movie". it is about me
and how i effect the world.
(the universe is too much to consider.)

here's an idea.
it'll solve the refugee crisis:
i suggest you send those refugees out into space. there's this
idea floating around
that i caught wind of:
"first refugees sent into space: today's news."

it rides the tailcoats of all else sent into space. imagine everyone in their
astronaut suits, astronaut helmets, welcome
to the latest installment
of "planet of the apes", here's the promo poster,
here's the five star rating,
here's the song aerosmith composed
specifically for the occasion; here's bono, he's
really pissed off;
floating around in space we go, bumpity bump bump, bumpity bump, floating

around in space,

there is no room
there is no room!

get out. get out! there is no room?

not in my house is there room. i am swollen, all the gravity i have
come to love within me
carries my hands, carries
my feet.

i am a baby.
there is no room for refugees in my country. my team inside
of me advises against it.
i am still, without allusion, in the womb.
my freedom to indulge in myself as something
i have, something
i can count on
would be compromised.
i would have to become an action, the action

i perhaps already am, but deny.
deny, deny, deny.

i'd have to see the light.

everybody is shutting their doors. it's not necessary we
go anywhere. we don't need to
get off of our asses anymore, unless

we have no place else to go.

i wander the movie inside me, while god is wondering
how such a bright, young american
wound up with a camera crew inside of a house

dreaming of telling their stories,
while the refugees outside
become the new landscapers

one throws pennies at to make their dreams
come true;
their altruist fetishes.
their big dreams in other bodies,

walking forty years
only to face glass ceiling after glass ceiling.

god says, nope.

there's a knock on my door. i'm very busy
rehearsing a scene.
i duck behind the arm of the loveseat.

the wind passes through. the wind tells
on me, but you never know
what the wind

is really saying.

nobody is home, i repeat
in my head. god says, "nope".
there is no room for shelter

in this home.

there is fruit that is moldy and memories have passed on.
there is no room for shelter

in this home.