"SuperMiles" by Joe Cha
The Spirit of St. Louis
by Bob Flanagan & David Trinidad
If youíre in doubt about angels being real,
prove it: hike to the nearest cliff and jump.
Youíll either fly or you wonít. Most likely,
youíll hit bottom before you get your wings.
Youíll be a sight for sore eyes, no better
than the twisted wreckage of an airplane,
like the one Buddy, that angel of rock,
ended up in. Yeah, thatíll be the day
youíll die, die, my darling. Theyíll have to pull
you out, piece by piece, patch you together
like some sort of mangled stuffed animal.
Oh, let me be your teddy bear of death.
Let me cover your last breath with my lips.
Inflate me with your departing spirit;
fill me with your diseased semen; pump me,
drill me, drive me insane with desire!
Then get out of my life! Leave me alone!
Iíve fallen madly in loveówith myself.
I love myself exactly as I am,
each hair and pimple precisely as is.
And like drama masks, there are two of me:
one who remembers you and longs to be
back in your arms again, and one who hates
myself for remembering and longing.
I must be balancing some bad karma
on the sandy shores between then and now.
How many lifetimes has it taken me?
Each new bodyís no more than a new shirt
which I put on without much willingness.
Today Iím a redhead; tomorrow Iím tan;
the day after tomorrow Iím just blue.
Iím the chameleon of the universe,
forever changing colors to fit your
perception of what a good soul should be.
You canít see the real me, and wonít until
the end. And by the way, just when is that?