And so here it is:
My secrets, my fortune!
The untold treasure harbored within my mind--
impeccable wisdom, and tormented genius!

I come to find illumination
and write poems--
in such a fashion as this:

It is I,
with heart on my sleeve
where I cough and sneeze,
becoming mired and virulent--
utterly human and fraught
for the world to see.

The magician who empties his sleeves,
overturns his top hat,
shying off his smooth pallid gloves!

Lies down on stage,
in a pool of my own blood and *****,
retching, trembling, aching,

gasping for air
roasting under an inquisitive lonely spotlight
I stare into
with a distant and longing gaze--

Eyes vacuous,
bulbous in sick contortion bulging veins popping
cracked lips gaping mouth tongue waggling speaking in tongues
choking air and body trembling in hideous convulsions--

for what benefit have I,
to purport and distort myself
in such a fashion?

It is for the sake of humanity,
in the flagellation of the human conscience
as it queries further
into the ambiguous amorphous impalpable
dark matter of the universe--

it is for our sake,
our illumination,
that I retch, and I ache.

Take note.

I am here to spread the gospel.
Yes I do declare I am a diligent disciple.

I have come to gaggle the good news,
to proselytize the perpetuity of heavenly wisdom.

I have come here to speak on behalf of poets everywhere:
young and old, alive and dead,
of all nationalities, ethnicities, genders, ****** orientations,
of every human being loitering upon this lush and teeming rock--
I have come to spread your word!

We, the poets,
beg you to hear our words
and put them in your mouth.

Store them in a cheek;
chew thoughtfully, and don't floss,
so we may linger between your teeth--

ready to eject with your spit we shall speak for you
and you shall speak for us.

We lie dead in the dirt until you breath life into us.

We sit poised on your tongue waiting for you to lash
into the air piercing thought bubbles with your voice.

We are instruments lying collecting dust in their cases,
ready to be grasped within calloused hands
and clasped between ruddy lips.

I have come here to tell you how to become a disciple as I:

Lovers, bring us to share!
Speak to your hearts from within worn and jaundiced pages;
we are merely ink stains until you make sense of it all.

Until you speak us into life
Until you soak us into your soul
Until you weave us into the very fibers of your being.

Fighters, bring us to bear!
Shout to your foes from atop grainy soapboxes
embedded within the grassy earth;
let your commanding footing propel you into the heavens!

Feel the wind carry your voice across the open plain and
SPEAK! BELLOW! SHOUT! BATTLE CRY!

They shall know the fear in their bones
and the goose flesh under their rattling armor
like death prickling the hairs on the back of their neck
until they become trodden in the earth like footstools--
until you walk across them head held high and victorious.

Pedestrians! Love if you dare!
Whisper these words under your breath,
holding doors and blessing sneezes,
smiling lovingly and making eye contact purposefully.

Take the joy in stranger's company or in solitude;
we will linger like pleasant specters,
like a lover's ghost:
waiting for you to follow me into eternity.

Yes, I do declare to be a diligent disciple,
and I roam through dusky towns with no pack on my back
nor a shelter over my matted head;

shouting through barren city streets into the desperate night,
roaming these dusty corridors praying a stranger opens their front door
and turns on the porch light
and lets me in for supper and a place to rest my weary head.

Though I'll soon be on my way again in the morrow,
my prayer,
the one of every aching poet in the midnight haze,

is that I'll linger.

On the days I hate music,
I entertain silence,
in a sense.

I stifle one music and greet another:
Silence accompanied by the soundscape.

In my car, windows rolled up.
The world outside my vessel becomes dulled.

The silence I sing ain't so quiet;
tempo'd to the turn signal's metronome,
the droning hum of the engine,
the screaming world seeping through cracks and crevices
within the assemblymen's exquisite craftsmanship.

I hear these songs.

I roll down the window;
I hear the staccato shrieks of impatient cars.
I hear the bombinations of the road worker and his jackhammer.
I hear the droll of the cement truck drudging down the highway.
I hear the light treading of the jogger
making her way down the eternal sidewalk.
I hear coffee poured and pondered over in the coffee shops.
I hear grocer boys bag absentmindedly in the supermarket
(where Allen and Walt linger).
I hear silverware jingle in the busboy's bustling trays.
I hear dog's elation leaning out their master's passenger window.
I hear tires groaning over the hot sticky pavement.
I hear the wind carry the sunny tune like the steady conductor
guiding their orchestra across the threshold to the enthralled audience.

The wind carries the tune to me,
and I hum along.

The days I hate music
are the days I remember
why we make it in the first place.

I escape to and from the soundscape.

“Well if the shoe fits.”

And it never does,
either too tight or too loose,
with my paint-thinner feet,
narrow, knifing through the canvas
heels flopping out at the back
toes mashing together at the front,

pacing between shelves at the store,
growing anxious mom impatient
in the waiting chair,

shifting between sizes,
walking prison-style with shoes zip-tied,
a second, third opinion,
salesclerk gets out the foot measure,
I take my socks off,
put them back on (are they too thick/too thin?)

feet either mashed or cavernous
if the salesclerk crouches down and presses a thumb at the end
and gives me an okay sign
I’ll walk around with ****** toes and bruised heels the rest of my life

because only others can convince me what my body truly feels
because mental illness is impalpable and therefore
unbelievable
and broken bones and black eyes
will perpetually surpass what lingers in my troubled mind
for I know not what the body wants (it’s ***, I think)

no,
I don’t know how it’s supposed to act,
or feel,
so I can let someone else decide for me,
as I let mom order my Happy Meals,
and buy my clothes she picked out,
and tell me what kind of girls I like,
and make my doctors’ appointments,
and file my taxes,
and pay my bills
(I just give her the money),

and I am convinced my body and mind
do not exist on the same plane,
and whatever signals they send each other
I render skewed
and the messenger disabled

and tonight I told mom
the shoes I’ve worn for five days straight
don’t fit
and my feet hurt
and she sighs and laughs simultaneously alongside the family
as she hands me the number to the store

and I halfheartedly wish
she’d make the call
or lean down and press a thumb
to the end of my shoe
and convince me it fits.

--Home, August 19, 1:41 AM

What is this
Satirical mask
That weeps self-deprecating tears
Through plastic slits
Down over a contorted smile
That mocks society
In pictoral flagellations
Of an aching conscience.