I am but a riverboat—hopelessly in touch
with my inner canoe. On the first day of nursery

school, I cried in mother's arms. It wasn't
separation anxiety. I was scared she would

come back. In high school, I was voted most likely
to secede. In college, I took so many drugs

the professors looked at samples of my urine
just to know what books I'd been reading.

I'm a narcissist trapped in the third person.
The sound of my own head being shaved

is my all-time favorite song. I stop people
on the street, show them pictures of myself

as a child, ask have you seen this boy?
He's been missing for a long time. His eyes

are the last swig of whisky before stumbling
out of a bar on a sunny afternoon. His cheeks

are twirling ballerinas. His cheeks are revolving
doors. I'm all out of cheeks to turn. I'm all

out of cheeks. My ego is a spiral staircase
inside a tornado. My eyebrows are that furry

feeling you get in your gut when you're about
to tell a lie. My tongue is a dolphin

passed out in an elevator. My tongue is a red carpet
I only roll out for you. My penis is a wise ass

in the back of the classroom who doesn't know
the answer, but sticks his hand up anyway.

My hearts hangs in my chest like a Salem witch.
My heart is a turtle ripped from its shell.

My heart is a street so dark nymphomaniacs 
are afraid to kiss. My heart, America, my heart.