The prophetic vision of snakes,

by the homeless shaman
outside my guest room
foreshadowed the dreams
of this life's tenants.

I lost the key to room 303,
and was reminded by photos of a baby ape
that I exist before my memories.

I can see myself,
through the thick lenses
of my young fathers' blurry eyes:

A little wild orangutang,
dressed in the purity
of eggshell white.

I was lifted by a bearded man
and bathed in the light of god…
My baby body dunked in domestication
like a dunkaroo in that weird icing.

Then I grew up
and swam in tears.
Until I grew up again
and drowned in light.

I still respect the rituals of baptisms
and I think I learned a lot that day.

When I write poems,
I count how many times I write "I,"
and picture myself
that many steps from salvation.

I have my fathers same blurry eyes
(only blue)
and my prescription is even worse.