Metaphysics is a word, a term for dangerous homebodies.
The world’s energy emanates from the hearts of such people
and they must be protected, like old paperback novels.
In summer’s heat, I want something cold like a movie named
Cold Mountain, which I remember seeing once but can’t
recall the details. Good advice is a bad idea. It’s also a bad idea
to fill your tiny room with an oversized mattress and waltz
around like you’re the King of the Everglades. Nobody owns
the swamplands, where invasive species of python swallow
goats and alligators whole. Yet not the ghost orchid: floating
above its predators, evanescent and spectral, as its name implies.
Insignificant others taught me to create this puny magic;
I too am insignificant. I will live forever underneath the boot
heels of the sky. Years later, eons: I grow a pencil mustache.