Survive your 33rd, anything
is possible, you said.
Teacher, scholar, acolyte,
bodiless mystic, ecstatic:
these weren’t for you, who
jumped out of helicopters,
fell through air, trusted parachutes.
No ponytail-wearing sensitive guy,
rather, a Millennium Man.
You found Enlightenment
between the thighs
of German exchange students
and swirled in Red Bull martinis.
You became explosive—
a paintball pellet,
a rush of heavy metal
from I-pod to eardrum.
Retro-chic in red Atari logo
cutoff t-shirt, a freak in Thai silk
with a favorite Bangkok tailor.
Yours such a human hunger.
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