After what feels like
a plethora of years
I've fallen in a hole
that may be love, but I'm not really sure about it
because once in a while
after a plethora of days
or hours
I am pulled apart by emotion.

No, not emotion--
the repercussions
thereof

The repercussions,
the repercussions of those repercussions,
and the repercussions of those--
A plethora of consequences

Have you ever been so stressed out
that you actually vomited?
Me... neither?
Instead I sway
from side-to-side
like a swing pushed
in the wrong direction
and as the sky turns
I make corrections
only hoping my wisdom is
"grammatically",
structurally sound--
unlike a skyscraper
pushed in the wrong direction--
As my eyes begin to burn
I wish the sky
would just stay dark
and that morning would never come
so I wouldn't have to meet
my daily migraine
nor the time of day
when I have to stop
wait
listen
learn
work
negotiate, speak, drum, impress,
produce, create, multiply
add and subtract
all in one sitting
all in one hour
every **** hour

Nor the time of day

when I start

to think

about

you.

That's when my mind
finds my heart.

They don't speak--
They just listen to one another
smiling sweet as Tupelo honey
I can almost imagine it
through the blood rushing
in my ears when I close them--
But it just feels
like a fist fight in my chest,
and the rage of it burns in my throat
and the spectators cheer them on
which resonates in my hands
which are then unable to write
which is a sad fact
that keeps my eyes from shutting at night,
at least not as soon as I want them to--

You don't have to tell me I'm crazy--

It screams at the back of my head when
you stare at me like that
thinking a plethora of
things that I can't keep in
a jar so that I can spread it
on my toast in the morning--
Saying a plethora
of things I misinterpret
to silence this
plethora of thoughts
that fall from my eyes
without ever reaching the ground
and the plethora
of grass-roots
who wouldn't know how to drink them
if they did
The plethora of times
I passed opportunities
without saying a word,
disguised them as reasons
not to say a plethora of phrases
in reply--
The plethora of plethoras
that communicate through an alphabet
of more than twenty-six letters
so that, in the middle of the night--
when I don't know what to dream about
and therefore must think instead--
it can irritate me
in more words than belong
in a dictionary.

But sometimes there's just one word
and the word that haunts me tonight is:

Plethora...
Plethora...
Plethora...
That's the flat sound of Pl-,
a soft, tender eth-
and the gasp of an -a
Plethora--
Plethora--
A hundred things yet to be said
Plethora--
So many crises
so much time
Plethora--
Not quite enough to make you mine
Plethora--
Plethora--
Plethora--

Plethora...


Ple­thora...




Plethora...




Plethora...







*Plethora...­