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

reaving-up

or a bomb beeping.

Cars are manufactured

to be silent

comfortable

fast

and smart

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

got angry

nasty

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

but me.

Nobody understands me

but me.

I am

the great mystery.