heroes live in Iceland too

somehow I wait for the night, its coolness
its transparency, even the starlight is icy

nothing can go wrong when you're black
pretending to be invisible, unless you laugh

it's not that I seek that immobile state where I dream
not yet, at least, I'm still sober, not underneath enough

that happens at noon, or after dinner
but the comforter on my bed is inviting

ice cubes melting in whiskey or the froth
of beer on a chilled glass - those were appetizers

drunk, I forget myself, a hero disguised
as a clown, as a pauper, all of it’s fantasy
and imagine myself on the front pages

people acclaim my bravura
“such bravery, such dedication…”

I answer only by avowing my simple qualities
eating pizza like a couch potato
I’ve already squealed about the beer

will they vote on my life, analyzing a usefulness
even I can't imagine? I wonder if the machines
aren't rigged somehow and what they reward
is not simply some bad series B fiction

I retain nothing of this lesson
simply the fleeting images of a man somehow
successful, having found once a lucky charm

tomorrow the night air will bring cold mist
the morning clogged with hazy invisibility

and like any ordinary man groggy with sleep
I'll fiddle with the thermostat, teeth chattering

hoping the radiator pipes won't bang too loudly
and my awakening become too abrupt

is that a bit of soot leaking from the chimney
mixing in with the instant coffee?



heroes live in Iceland too
[2007.27.9…a]