on fear.

I don’t scare easy,
not like a horse.
It takes a lot more to spook me
than my own shadow dancing on the wall.
I’m not afraid of red azaleas,
or residual radiation and electricity
falling from low sailing satellites in the clear Connecticut skies.
I am not afraid of spiders—
they are teaching me the art of patience.
I was a little disturbed, but mostly intrigued
when I heard a story about an old friend, who—
seduced by crystal meth—was seen one winter evening
waltzing in the middle of the street,
dressed in a billowy ball gown, fervently thrusting
an aluminum Christmas tree through the air like a crazed conductor,
madly leading an absent orchestra,
and with one swift flick of the wrist,
stopping her symphony
to flip boney birds and howl obscenities at passing cars
when caught in their high beams.
I’m afraid of yellow skies.
I’m afraid of the secrets the government is keeping.
I’m afraid of never finding love.
I’m afraid when the street lamps
blink off as I drive beneath them—
an especially cruel extended joke to play
on the already severely superstitious and suspicious.
I’m afraid of Steven Hawking’s prediction,
that the aliens will be hostile,
but I have a hunch, that this time, he’s wrong.
A few nights ago I had a dream:
I could see myself, standing naked
in front of my bedroom windows.
The curtains were drawn open
and a brilliant blue light was seeping
through the blinds, illuminating my bare skin
and warming my body.
It lifted me off the carpet,
and I hovered, bathing in the glow.
And as it pulled me towards it,
I felt bliss.
I just wish something less alien
would make me feel human.