by Myron Michael

TWO

The voices in my head have horns. My ambitions are not aligned with what I have to work with, they’re much more headier. They’re like bulls, if you slap them on the ass they’ll come after you. Steer you this way and that way to escape them. So I pray, and I jog, for life, to stay fit, to increase negotiation strength with the universe. To work for nothing in this life that isn’t cornered in a pile for me to have. To clearly see the phi of every golden section, crooked as a smile, irrational as a crook, that because its beauty is breath taking, has me thinking thoughts I shouldn’t think, falling face first into a Blues of water rough as the Hudson, strident as the Mississippi, and lovely as the great lakes. To one’s self be true even if it means snaking away from a good thing, her and her alone, for something better: you, out in the open field, molting. Miles and miles I’ve accumulated, drifting and jogging, extending myself like a Fibonacci sequence. This is to that as that is to there, where exhausted sits with its legs sprawled out on the grass, one angled, sweat dripping from his brow like rain. Two months later the roses came. My bike is a time machine equipped with hydraulics and astral tires, aligns with the bully’s of the mind. The first time I rode it I took it past her house—her infidelity is still shrapnel in my chest—then past the former apartment of an old friend who now lives in Los Angeles. There the homeless spit on windshields and wipe sins away for as little as pocket change. Pure nostalgia for the hurt and the healing.