Wednesday, October 29, 2014



Cool cut when I was a kid, flat top
and long hair around the sides, duck tailing
in the rear, unusually usual so that I looked different
like everyone else, unique as a quarter, but I suspected
even then I was chiseled from a rock quarry
others blew up, not gathered their stone.
Have grown over the years not impertinent but distant,
a leg away form my neighbors, four directional
so never at a time I can say wholesomely I fit,
or even demented, rebellious, can organize around
my center with a design as conclusive as a chalk mark
and elicit converts to my aid. Impossible me,
arguing continuously with the mirror image I face
each evening, with neither side ever relenting.

Self-censorship, like self-enlightenment, like self-
taught. The self is a marvelous thing, so selfless
it sequesters itself in a tureen filled with molasses,
a gunk, sweetened and thick that holds it together,
never revealing itself to others. Just once
I'd like to flash the universe, not with indignities
but with intimate liquids, admit I leak from predictable
orifices, give my statistics—not just
psychical entities, height, weight, age,
but maladies, so open I can saunter in revelation,
a heliotrope turned to the sun, with nothing sécreted
yet fully invulnerable to darkness, lies, misgivings,
a fishbowl existence so no curve in my anatomy
is an imponderable and I needn't apologize for anything.

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