Visitor-ing (Poem)

The Bukowski bee
came in
and sprinted away
like the Sunday joy.

Careful in
thought, action, deed
like the new immigrant.

it’s either drunk
or desperate
hard to tell
with the sinful antennas
and treacherous steps.

the railway movement
of the legs
and the weapon-ed wings
with party-bouncer eyes
are hard to miss.

but then
it teleported into
the wormholes
of the switchboard.

Probably to write
notes from underground
like Dostoevsky.

it won’t see me
becoming Nietzsche’s Ubermensch.

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