Dressed

in silence,

strung

like

pearls,

two truths:

white tux,

black tie.

p

Cloak a

and r

tales | t

dance – • n

with e

the r

rule, e

d

to

a lie.

(Even

a broken clock

is right

twice a day.)

mindful

of words

meaning

more

of sight

seeking

always

of thought

truly

sinking in

of actions

healing

hearts

of breath

precious

and blessed

of my movement through this world

what is left behind when we go and

i want you all to know, you are Love(d)

This is something like a love letter. This is probably something like a rant. This is too many words, brain-spillage. This is not poetry. This is not prose. I am sorry if that is what you were expecting today. I’m sorry if I am not what you were expecting today. I am not what you need. I am I. I am probably not what you were expecting today. I am single-drop hemoglobin in vast, ocean-endless veins. You are type-O carrying while I am AB-incompatible, toxic. I am I. I am I, inside of I. And I tend to lack the propensity required to carry on conversations. I tend to lack the emotional drive to lend myself to others more than just temporarily. I am I, internal-searching. I am I, inward-facing. This is expulsion. Evac/Recharge. Evac/Recharge. I am lack of responsibility for you. Do not leave your feelings in my hands. Do not expect me to hold water or sand. I am sieve. I am leaking. I am not fit for holding. I am vessel of me. I am awareness-raised yet surprise-unwarranted. When I say I am inconvenient. When I say I am unreliable. When I say I am lacking. I am dissociating. I am I. Please believe me.

I’m all recycled phrases, bullshit metaphors. Don’t read me. I’m rotting meat. Maggots in pits. I’m blood crusted under the surface of bruised skin. I’m broken teeth, cavities. I’m the fucking soup du jour. But not today’s. Last week’s. Slop no one fucking ate. That paper sheet on the chair at the dentist. Used. Never changed. I’m the fever-sweat skin flakes you left in bed. Vomit in the toilet. Bandages, bloodied. That bowl you left in your bedroom. Covered in fucking black mold. Fucking black mold in general. Those giant sloughs of rubber tires that litter the freeway. Road gators. Fucking whatever. Spoiled milk. Disposable socks at the shoe store. Those plastic sleeves that magazines come in. Fucking useless. Empty coffee cups. Kitchen-drawer, dead batteries. Broken lightbulbs. Morning eye scum. I’m that last sip at the bottom of the glass. No one wants to fucking drink me. I’m last year’s almanac. Last year’s newspapers. Last year’s trends. Last year’s date. Last year’s...what the fuck was I talking about again?

I am ruin.

Fuckadoodle-doo said the rooster

As he saw the farmer's axe

Fook-Hen Hell said the chick-hen

But the farmer said

Relax.

Bucking follox said the Turkey

As the farmer passed close by

That twastard’s going to chop me

But the farmer said

Don’t cry.

And the farmer headed for the trees

To chop some fire wood

And the farm birds sighed

With stark relief

And said

That’s clucking good

We were plucking lucky there!

At last

Now I'm back.

Hoping that you ache at the thought of me,

Seeping and damp at the thought of me.

I hope that you admit you missed me.

You don't want to

Admit you missed me.

I start to rise

At the thought of you.

Inside you deny

But I hope you will

Admit you missed me.

I smell your gratitude as I touch your neck with my lips.

Your gentle moan as your body reacts and begins to

Admit.

You missed me.

We kiss.

Boozing, losing, never choosing

Snoozing, oozing, always bruising

Musing, schmoozing,

Makes it so confusing