My Hair Is On Fire

Shot like a man out of a cannon. My mother almost died giving me birth. Head was too big. Doctors' thought I might need braces on my neck. Crawled through the first centuries of life. When I was twenty my hair was down my back. Orange and dusty. I felt like a god. Beautiful and outrageously vain. Standing in the Kipling Station. I could have stood there forever. When I stepped on the train I was 40 and everything picked up speed. The last decade has been like a long weekend. My eyes are watering. And my hair is on fire.
These are the poems of the 21st Century. Almost songs. Almost odes. Something like thoughts about growing older. And hemorrhoids.