throwing myself
onto the wave of normalcy
being spit out
to ride the thunderstorm
of uniqueness...

Oh mother gracious!
What is this?

----

I once had bliss!
But now?

----
Ah, spit. Spit!

----
You were like a dish set up on a table.
One that was meant to not be taste by me!

But oh dear goodness gracious!

---

Please. Spit. Spit!

----
for years,
I hungered for a little bite of you.
I indulged, and now,
Just look at me!

I am round like a circle
Circling the table
Biting
more
And
more
Of
You


I want to finish you till the last bite
but I also want for you to last forever more!

I want to be filled by you everyday,
But I don't want to ever feel completely full!


It's just that you are like this!
Some dish!


And now, all I want to do is

Spit. Spit!

Oh Nay!

I just want to eat.

what have the drunkards told you?

that you were beautiful--
different, gentle, pure
while they were busy
vacillating, you found
yourself whole among
their stormy seas, a tidal
wave bearing down upon
choppy waters where sailors
are lost and boats are sunk
ships full of diatribes and
bitterness, crippling resentment
folded into the bathus --

What have the drunkards told you?


to be less, to dissolve, to speak expressly in
salt and ***, come down from the hill, from
the towers, from the lighthouses where you
poured over the bounding main
learning to be for others lost
what have the drunkards told you?
mixed and unbecoming, double minded
and hopeful for your body


but testimony seeps out from beneath your dress
and some men are scared of lights and lamps
of flowers pressed into the walls, quiet and
unassuming, of stair steps and bookcases
without books

be the light
be the light