last night between two dreams i had a little chat with god who was also getting a glass of water and asked him why he makes some of us uncool on purpose
why couldn’t i be dope like Ezra Pound or a fly cat like Kerouac or better yet a love poet on Pinterest with a vintage typewriter and trendy tortoiseshell glasses and lipstick that’s too red for my olive skin?
and god said that he made my skin like olive oil to remind me of fresh bread and aged wine and my dark brown hair to go with pink lips instead and my poems to build a new consciousness with my two thumbs
and then he told me in his big blue slippers hanging at the water cooler that he designed some of us—on purpose—to be square like matchsticks because we’re made to burn ourselves out like embers on a fiery plank—dust to dust and all that—to play on the teeter totter of rhyme, to use our legs to build sailboats that traverse the spaces between sunsets and carefully crafted synecdoches, to turn commas and grammatically correct semicolons from ash to ash where they belong, and to burn, burn, burn like a beat without ever dancing
and then i said to god, i don’t understand, what am i supposed to do with all this fire and ash and other uncool shit? i’m no matchstick
and he said, buy a fucking notebook