No, I haven’t read the newspaper today,
like most other days,
I avoid licking the tips
of my fingers to flip the print
because who needs ink smudges on thumbs
Reading the news almost guarantees
performing the Rorschach inkblot test
So I don’t.
Because being your own doctor is hard:
What do you see in this word on your thumb?
A man riding a unicorn.
What do you see in this one?
A man riding a unicorn and getting shot in the face.
It’s safer to be ten years old and play Barbie
than have what’s black and white and red all over
ruin your face
should you rest your head on the paper.
I want to daydream back to ten years old,
but getting stuck in “hey kid” isn’t easy.
The images are blurry.
The feelings aren’t the same.
Being jealous is boring.
I didn’t believe the same things I do now—
how I don’t believe in the news
the way some people don’t believe in God.
And the computer chair in this office isn’t made for reading:
the leather is too slick,
falling off your seat is not professional—
answering the phone from the floor isn’t yoga,
Yes, I try to practice yoga properly,