It's Okay, Robot

I used to watch each dandelion in the traffic island flower and go to seed, waiting to send the seeds sailing with a hard breath, or reduce them to flashes of yellow with a lighter. They say there’s a David Bowie inside each of us, just waiting to burst out, but how will I know? Even the swarms of bees seemed special the first time—afterwards I lay on my couch, feeling like a piece of warm, thick glass. A bee flew out of my collar and I thought of how they totally covered that station wagon, and then my head. It all blurs together now—the traffic islands, the dandelions, the swarms. Everything is bursting out of my chest, and some of it might be David Bowie, but certainly not all.