Brush fire

Integrity dies
like a homeless vet
slumped in his wheelchair
on some snowy sidewalk,
people passing him by
for hours or days
before anyone sees
his styrofoam cup
runneth over with change.

There is a phantom thread
stringing all pirate ships
to the guiltiest
of politicians.
Muppets masquerading
as skulls
confused by music.

I once watched a woman
give a stranger a handjob
on a red eye flight,
thinking everyone
most likely asleep,
while I wasn’t
but I pretended to be.

And now I’m reading
the secret to a happy marriage
is to have sex all the time,
no matter what,
just keep fucking,
while my OCD
convinces me
every social interaction
is a timebomb
waiting for people
to discover I am a pervert.

I sexually identify
as a garbage can,
scent of fracking fissure
and decayed turtle,
while in Australia
retired soldiers are caring
for injured koala bears,
because when entire continents
are burning
the sanctity of life
is found
in every screaming mouth.