being normal

when the better part of sensitive, reverts
to sequence, like air spoiling fruit;

it's time to rearrange.

selling time to change is hard, like
lighting candles with scapegoats,

and praying for a flame.

i once lit seven cigarettes, at once,
and passing them to friends we shared

the moment.

I once half made love to a girl, who hid
her pain in the nook of her chest; closed

her eyes and wouldn't let me in.

I once cried at the site of an elephants foot,
dried and stuffed, resting in shag carpet

and covered in wax.

I wear shirts of justice, telling stories of
purity,

of letting go
of consequences that have no intension

of following through.

what does
that make me?

normal.