Tulip

Suddenly, no one believes we walked on the moon. And what are hieroglyphs but emojis from the dead? I don’t even know what train I’m on. The lump on my shoulder grows into a tulip and wraps its roots around my brain. Last night I dreamt I was with my mother. We were looking at dinosaur bones and she pointed to a large femur. Sometimes I wonder what her last dream was. Did she dream of me? On the train, I hug the pole. People scoff. Having no balance is my biggest transgression. I fall on the subway floor and get back up. I barf on the platform and mice erupt from my mouth. The police place orange cones on my feet, hands, and head. They laugh. I wonder what my father’s last dream was. When I’m stressed, I try to call him: 503-659-0163. Hello? There are two cats buried in the backyard of his house. One is black (Six Toes), the other white (Hopper). Who lives in that house now? I watch some kids in dunce caps throw Osiris in front of a train. The city rats will spread his body across the five boroughs like garbage in the wind. There is no message in any of this. Life and death are just raw data. It’s like we are in an episode of Ghost Adventures and, through the moonlight, we can just make out the spirits of astronauts floating into space.