Every time I read something that I’ve written,
it’s like viewing a
beautiful pornography
of all the things I’ve managed to stifle,
the little dust bunnies of concern
that I’ve hidden in skeleton-filled pantries.
I find myself recounting some
asinine moment
that I’ve painted in vague groans,
sweat and saliva
spilled across something smooth and taut.
These phrases build,
panting and undulating
as they slap together in some
primal rhythm,
and I’m always a beat off.
These thoughtless recountings
are flushed with a pantomime of life,
faces I’ve faked into the camera
to keep the crowd interested.
Even I’m glued to the tv,
fists clenched
in desperation and desire
and I can not wait for my soul to come.