Maybe I’m a zebra.
My wings are rudimentary 
but a node in my noggin allows me
to get drunk with the least provocation.
Red skirt hic bubble wrap hic
accoutrements of an obscure practique.
Only half of me disappears at night,
the half that doesn’t disappear in snow
and thus I am able to discourse with death
with a straight face.
Much fisticuffs in the penetralium. 
Much sexual argon in the manic greenhouse.
I’m a walking talking eclipse
so identity theft doesn’t worry me much.
Feeding on honeycomb through chicken wire,
thus I serve out my bondage.
The solution to life is death
yet the question keeps getting asked
and not twice the same.
I never wanted to hurt anyone.
Well, almost.
Is this your hatchet?
A moon puts its beak in my eye,
and orchid forwards my mail.
Tangential to the chewy nougat, the caramel.
It’s one thing after another for the zebra:
betrayals in the high grass, simpleton suicides,
vasodilators ruining a good stampede.
When you go to my grave, you go to the wrong place.
The color of saying hello not knowing to whom,
the shooting star turned into static,
I thought you couldn’t burn a river,
I thought the worst grief was no grief at all.
Remember honking in a tunnel?
A small abyss yet everyone fits.
But I digress.
My god is a zebra after all,
imparting high-speed reversals to the swing shift.
Our camouflage works best
galloping en masse in discotheques.
We are very gentle with our young.

= John-Thomas Hanson