I have your number, Seabird

His bathroom is small and bleak. The mirror
shows your reflection in seven colors which
haven't been named on the red-blue-yellow
spectrum. Your eyes are shaking like eggs
and he hasn't said your name in a year. You
think of everything he calls you: Jay, Jaybird,
Rose if he's playful. He told you particles of
every man he's slept with are in the carpet
when he pulled your head back to look into
your pupils. Your eyes are black. They run,
raw and rotten from fluorescence overhead.

He told you the shrooms weren't the same.
If you don't like LSD, you might feel better
trying something more natural. It grows
like marijuana: from the ground. But so does
every poison you can think of. You're natural,
bare with shades you can't begin to fathom.
Something like sulfur is in your nostrils. You
touch the furry rug and think of Vishnu. He
has so many arms to carry you. Jesus only has
two. The church was broad and heavy. It sleeps
in Chicago, beside a park that smells like piss.

He opens the door, stands in dark, and asks
if you're going to be okay. You must answer
because he leaves you with your eggs. You
touch six gouges in the particle board counter
and wonder how many men are in it. You sleep
on the porch but never leave the bathroom
and keep telling yourself: tomorrow has you
on speed dial. It's waiting to call your name,
living in the pores of your forehead. The sky
is a bowl turned upside down with a million
gouges shaking. It makes you dizzy and sick

until he opens the door again. He sits beside
you. He says tomorrow is going to be better.
For some reason, he apologizes. He says life
is better when you're not sober. He means
that he hasn't been coping well and knows
that you've been in your head thinking about
how many thumbprints are on the toilet
and how the universe must get stuck between
Krishna's molars. It must be flecked with
tandoori and gulab jamun and sesame seeds.

Like Jesus, he smiles. He rests his hand on
your shoulder and promises that tomorrow
is going to better. It won't shake or tremble.
It will be red, blue, and yellow. Tomorrow,
you might crack your eyes open and they'll
show you everything you need to know about
evolution and God and who came first. You
will answer the phone and the future will
speak to you in the static. He tells you that
he loves you. He puts his head on your thigh
and asks if you're feeling it. You say, "A little.

I'm just waiting for something to happen."