exposition

may the shit i say

make its way into the books,

fuck up history so much it rocks the world off its axis and topples atlas onto his goddamned head,

causes zeus to choke before he devours his children.

poetry is longevity in its gristliest form

and these lines are some enduring motherfuckers plucked fresh off the bone—

hard to swallow,

tough to chew.

some sons of bitches claim words these days ain't shit compared to whitman,

i tell them jesus was a bastard, just like me and you

and his word is gospel.

so i'll celebrate my goddamn self

and make this life a classic,

strip my soul and sell its pieces until there's so much of me exposed that it's pornographic

and my sobs need to be censored

with dial tones.

heart on sleeve, xxx.

i want to be a sell-out for the feeling,

claim i'm a poet but keep my heart open for the stealing,

say i'm a heathen but love my love like religion.

god,

i hope he hears me.

i pray one day my mouth will give more air than what it takes from my suffocating brothers and kindle more fires than the flames it smothers.

i pray that if all my flaws and fortes are placed on a balance,

i will weigh more than my limits—

i will be too fat for the wind to carry,

too colossal to be anything insignificant,

too big to be small.

i pray that one day i will melt the degrees of separation between who i am and who i want to be

so i can be the first beast to say

i didn't save myself for slaughter,

so i can declare my findings to the demons i've expelled and the fellow waning souls i've culled like ships to a lighthouse,

"i made it to the end, and it's beautiful."