I am the innominate with supply,
anointed liberally-
ruddy as if with poisonous dye.
I am selling myself, short with long features and
I have open sores from self neglect.
I select negative dreams over sexuality.
I go to dog races, betting by name only and
afterward a beggar dredging filth may find what is left of me,
possibly selecting intellect over greed in apathetic irony, and
will leave my body untouched for dogs
to find on the lively side of deathly sallow.
I will be roused by growls,
quickened in recovery
by a snarling chomp
to the dogs delight-
propelling me into a swift romp of flight.
What has been left to stay inside of me
is self-selected silence,
financed by yours truly and
fueled in blind ambivalence.
But in a dragging on- long dry time I am eloquent
in saying our world has distrustful proclivities and
we need more philogyny,
more philanthropy-
for we are forgetting fast our hard earned etiquette.
Get a man his drink.
I say we hold our definition of humanity
in a sieve, like the cup that runneth over and
form our hands bowl shaped
to catch the liquid dripping,
dribbling down our forearms.
I believe there is a world beyond the masses
surrounding this genesis of transience,
freely filled with reason- I long for this.
And I say this all before the stopper
is uncorked,
my final period punctuated
with a pop, then I drink
and I drink.
I simply drink.