Unembroidered

 

I get to die at the end.

That’s reason enough to

perform this play;

the play itself,

a crucible on which

I learn to change my life.

Who wouldn’t want

a play to die in?

 

I leave traces of myself

on everyday objects

in hopes the mystery

will eventually be solved.

Prints on a plate,

saliva on a rim,

residue on a bowl

of a spoon.

All roads lead to

a change in how

I will continue

to exist.

 

I never finish my plate

for that same reason

so that non-existent biographers

can ascertain what

touched my heart

through the soul

of my mouth.

 

I once buried a Smith Corona

in the desert only to

dream of words

like ants

pouring out of a hole

to devour me.

I must eat

myself in order

to stay alive.

No, in order

to stay awake.

 

I have always needed

something to lament;

a solitary longing

for a second

pair of eyes

so that I 

appear as

what I see.

 

But at this point

none of this

means anything

to anyone

but me.

Every walk I take

in the woods

I am still walking

with no edge

to exit from.

 

Thieves stole

an ancient copper relic

said to contain

the blood of Jesus,

then it turned up 

in a slum

coveted by

careless children.

I am that cup.

 

Being malformed keeps

my feelings in check.

All I need is to

worship this moment.

I am kind to everyone

I meet.

I am beneath everyone

and everything

therefore

all things flow

down toward me.

I keep so little.

 

My eyes take in your scent.

My mouth hears your voice.

My nose remembers 

everything I have

loved.

 

8/11/22