by Andrew Hill
the problem with believing in
angels is that invariably you meet one
and she has Malibu Barbie’s tan with
the IQ of a plastic chair but you
just don’t care because one look and
you now believe in God
and you may be screwed up in your head
because you sat next to that oddball kid in seventh grade
on the yellow bus with wheels spinning out gloriously
who huffed paint and invited you over one day to huff too
and three weeks later you were a sick thirteen year old
suffering fainting spells from paint thinner high
this is when the visions started, scenes played out in your head
of loaded guns misfiring into pots of coffee, drenching the Folgers freaks
with caffeine and whatever the hell else is in coffee and coffee pots
this is when you started drawing, writing, and defacing books in the public library
not just any books, children’s books, as if you wanted an entire generation to grow illiterate
and as troubled as your childhood seemed and seems and will continue to seem
Ken’s wife – beach edition – stares into your eyes or maybe you stare into hers
because a chair is hard to read even when
you’re in love