Mike Bushnell

fuckfame imma human secret

I don't wanna take the items of your life and pile them up and burn them on a barge floating away from the harbor

did I brush my teeth yet did I get enough sleep

I hear drills a dozen eagles carry a duffle bag of money above the water tower

I am not important I reject mastering fame because water drips from the umbrella

there are bars on the window there's bars on these windows bars are on the gotdamn window metal bars while the makeup stays in the shape of a face and the arm reaches into the lamp light suddenly wire hangers sway in the closet

how many pieces of fuzz must come off the gloves before the gloves come off

I whistle to the windy I confess I have eaten bubblegums my heart is just a ziplock full of bloodly

bag in a box in a bag smiles move within these structures made with calm wrists I walk under the scaffold as you build it

A forest of calliopes a forest of churches a forest in the heart of a desert where I drop to one knee and look you in the eyes

it isn't all so pretty

big deal

I want to go up the escalator toward the illuminated billboard toward the hand holding my dreams I jump for them I wave my arms no luck jewelry dangles from the body into the cold night

inside is epicly and romance and this lifetime is just a forest full of furby it's okay you mourn your loss I'll mourn mine and in between we can spin at the top of the hill laughing toward the airplanes circling until they are cleared to lower their gears and land on the runway and hit the breaks and feel the g-force of return in our graceful machines

Mike Bushnell is the author of Traumahawk.

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