My name's Adrian Matejka and I'm gonna be reading "Seven Days of Falling".  The poem's from my second book Mixology and was inspired by a wonderful jazz tune (?~0:09).

Seven Days of Falling

Today, I'm assimilating like margarine
into hotcakes.  I'm getting down

like Danny LaRusso after the against-
the-rules leg sweep.  So low,

I'll be a flower in common decency's
lapel.  Factual, the same way "Zanzibar"

means sea of blacks to anyone who isn't
from there.  Where is Juan Valdez, 

his burroesque dependability when
you need him?  I had a friend who minted

t-shirts with Juan front and center,
an afro instead of a sombrero, a power

fist in place of a smile.  The inscription:
100% Colombian.  I'm going the way

of skin--radio waves, thoughts
like ear-to-ear transmissions grounded

into the ozone on the way from mindless
space to forgetful Earth.  Man, my skin

doesn't need me anymore than mold
needs cheese.  On this day of cellophane 

lunchboxes and hand grenades reshaping
my palms into their own militaristic orbit,

there are only oceans to catch me.
On this day, something needs

to catalogue me: a hall monitor
doubled wide by ambition,

a goldfish with thumbs hitchhiking
toward a fishbowl full of dub.