Colorado River

At my absolute worst, it feels as if the water of the Colorado River is wasted on me.

Surely, anyone is plenty worthier than me to shed the grime of their body, the grease of their hair in the minerally water running through all those aqueducts and various pipes. Surely, anyone is plenty worthier than me for that gig, that sweet bit or that last bite. And yet, wanting to deflect any attention, to disappear into the background, to turn into mist or dust, to let go of particles and articles and itemized lists of wishes and passions, to slowly unbecome is the ultimate objective. The culture of my origin, even of my nuclear, ergo explosive, family defers to self flagellating wisdom that goes like “coughing up blood but explaining it away as recently enjoyed cranberry juice” or “long sleeves are good for hiding broken arms.”

Appropriation of translation of interpretation makes interesting poetry, then, after all, I do take a shower, the water of the Colorado River yet again wasted on me.