Poem Sunday

Above the Crowd

This is how we breed,

spread malcontent like spores

on whispery winds from willowy spirits — 

Oh hollow heart resonate until your tone resounds in every vessel.

My pain spills over in drops of sweat

falling from my brow in rhythm with the pounding

of my feet falling, my shins splinting

and the pavement calling: forget

forget, forget.  I cannot.  You made my body

ugly.  I still burn though my muscles are strong.

My pain spills over in acid and bile

and alcohol of happy youth.

My parents loved me here

to this toilette.  Love me now as I heave

your conditions and disappointments into this swirling bowl

and open my mouth again to swallow respite.

My pain spills over in tears and laughter

with tales I tell of hell and

my residence there.  I laugh now

my loved ones are gone

and no one comes near.  I am a sinner,

but I have paid my dues and hid my tears.

I brag hollow tones

beating my heart’s drum —

I am more self-destructive than you,

I have been degraded beyond pity

into humor, but not humility.

This is the excrement that is me which

I grab in my palms, squeeze in my fists

and shove into my stomach again.

My pain spills over in the movement of my bowels

expelling, expressing all that I am

the only way I know how.

That is to say, with the arrogance of my lips

I hold my excrement above the crowd and shout

this is the only remarkable thing about me.