have you ever cut open a fig
or a pomegranate
the chambered beast of the vegital world?
they are so distinct in their look and texture
yet meaninglessly annoying to eat,
the singer with no sense of key nor tonality.
I am a singer like that
I am distinct and as such deserve adoration and glory
but I can not be born for long with out irritation.
I chafe in the tender spots that are not for lovers:
the arm pit,
behind the ear,
or the skin between the smallest toes.
these are the places I touch in each stranger as they pass me in conversation.
these are not glorious spots to touch,
and I am not thrilled with this marked distinction.
but to fight one's nature only brings a frustrating lack of identity,
a drain that is numbed by years of alcohol
and a tightly constrained character.
this is like swaddling the child too tightly
it will die in misery more profound than the cold from which you are protecting it,
and as such it is better to embrace the loose, cheap, woolen rag
that is my character than to die gentile, resentful, and well thought of.
No comments:
Post a Comment