Struck by Mathias Nelson

I am too anomalous for this small city.
I stand out like Edgar Allan Poe on opium
or Scissor Hands full of Johnny Walker,
my head a dome of dark thoughts.
These cheeks are too heavy for grins.
Moses split my hair with sticky goop
and there is a small beach ball growing in my belly,
filled with fat ancestors.
I am full of it.
I sigh, sigh
and share pockmarks with the moon.
We have been struck,
bullied by the forces that be. We,
always we.
I am not alone in this world,
just distanced.
I can feel my daughter
beneath my feet
reaching for my heart.
But here
the asteroids keep coming,
bringing no time for children.