I’m befuddled by the wind,
how it blows;
it has this bodiless direction.
I can feel it kissing my face.
Hey wind, you strange warthog—
how can you touch me so,
when I can’t touch you?

I’m befuddled by the starlight drip
over Wagner Butte.
When did the earth cry out in thirst
for your electric melon juice?
How can I see you,
so clearly expired?

I’m so full of wonder.
Who turned the crank that awoke me this morning?
Was it you, Atlas, on your heroic treadmill?
did you do it
so I could bear witness
to your nauseating
Zumba routine?

People at house parties go
Oh Andrew, he’s so full of wonder!
Like a child
or a childlike old wiseman.
What zest for life! What’s his secret?

My secret is
I am melting here.
My secret is
I just want to cum and cuddle
and sleep
and eat
and shit and feel high on laughing gas all the time.
But I can’t!
I have to pay bills,
and I think I have a dentist appointment today.
And I just don’t know why anyone does life—
it’s so much effort
and so sad sometimes.
But I don’t want to say that at house parties.
I just talk about the wind and the starlight
and the wonder.

Image credit:Yutacar on Unsplash

Andrew Rogers is a musician, writer, and propagandist from Portland, OR. His work is to be featured soon in The Tiny Mag. He earned his BA in Philosophy and Spanish at the University of Oregon. Andrew has red hair and is severely colorblind.


Twitter: @arogpdx

Instagram: @gingerarog

Soundcloud: Abwands