Why I Like to Sit on the Floor

and Other Aberrations

Sometimes furniture feels like an affectation;

a chair was never a part of the natural order.

When I sit on the floor I feel more grounded,

less pretentious, more centered, more real.

All things flow downward toward what’s low.

To sit on the floor is like sitting in God’s lap.

I always hold the first sip of wine in my mouth

without swallowing it as if I were trying

to identify a poison, 

except when taking the Eucharist.

A psychic once told me I’d been poisoned

in a past life.

I was also told I’d been beheaded.

Cutting my hair always feels like a suicide attempt.

I often walk with my head cocked to the side

imagining I'm in a b&w film from the forties.

I force a smile every morning the first thing upon waking.

I tell myself nothing bad can happen when you’re smiling.

I like to rearrange my furniture on a weekly basis.

I cannot look in a mirror in public.

I cannot look at pictures of myself.

There are certain songs I will be singing all my life.

Everything I know about human nature

I learned from Cinderella.

Seeing someone vomit makes me vomit.

I have a preternatural fear of mannequins.

Trees can make me cry.

I can’t undress in a room that smells of chlorine.

If I see someone down the street a block ahead of me

I always look away for fear they’ll see me looking at them.

I can’t bear gum in my mouth after its lost its flavor.

I hate hearing the telephone ring.

I like risking my life.

I cry in cars.

I've no idea what it feels like to be a man.

03/31/22