Living would come more natural
If I could believe I was the son of God
I swear
If I could put faith in Gatsby
I could make wrench love with Hope
It’d be wholesome, love
you find in commercials
leaving you with an uncomfortable feeling,
an understanding
that will die too often,
re-incarnated, no Buddha.
(I was supposed to be cloned.
The clone was supposed to be labed with tattoo.
I awoke tattooed.)
Hope’s body is a town of ghosts
tourists wander her early morn
before coffee shops open
and last call drinkers hang up.
Her heart is birds caught in aftermath of rocket,
sounds of red red roses
exhausting in a cage.
I swear
I was born to be living
but not much else.