I give interviews about my death
to first dates.

I don’t die,
I just eat a lot of salad.

I hand my dog a pig ear
and realize I’m a survivor.

The news makes no sense to me
because I can’t smell the people.

I clear my throat till the neighbors,
fed up, move out.

I’m wispy
like a watery alien,

a breatharian
eating the light of the sun.

I risk my life
changing a light bulb.

I part my hair
with a mini-trampoline.

I could break my neck with
how vigorously I wash my beard.

My blood is
a stack of poker chips.

If I stick a thumbtack in my belly button,
committing a little harakiri

or fly to Denmark
for suicide by rollercoaster,

in the ski lift to the sky burial,
I’ll come face to face with my encumbrance,

the expansive me.