Yesterday, I was out-of-sorts
I woke up, feeling good
like, I didn’t need anybody.
I was putting myself together, in my own bed
like a thousand-piece puzzle, like a hobby.
I go to work, but I don’t go to work
I get all green lights
Mozart moves me like a bird, on the radio
I have to prove my magic—that I can fly
I do, what you do
but I do it differently.
Nobody can bring me down to earth.
Computers, from the early 90s
make sound when you turn them on
like an engine
or a bomb beeping.
Cars are manufactured
to be silent
just like a computer.
I like a machine to be a machine.
I am a machine
on the golf course.
“Can I play golf with you?” He asked, like he didn’t want to.
“Sure,” I said, like I didn’t care.
He started to say jab remarks, like he was a featherweight fighter
“The one time you don’t hook it,” he said, “it takes you behind the trees.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“You don’t have a shot,” he said.
I decided to hook it, around the oasis, over the water, and into the green. I pulled it off—
a 220-yard miracle shot.
The golfer I was with
while I defied gravity
People want me to lose
They don’t want to see the miracle
I like old technology
my golf game revving-up
taking-off, like a rocket
Nobody can put my puzzle together
Nobody understands me
the great mystery.