Four

"Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves"


My soul is sick, the way the sea is sick,
vomiting sins like dead fish in red tide,
baking thick in the air, till I don't even know
if I'm hungry for more or just really gone.

People are my pillars and my prisons,
I stand on their heads till the neck breaks
and yell because this has to not be my fault
then chain to them till we can't move and just die.

Grief, though real, was cried in grandiose acts,
scheduled only half of the time for my audience
which applauded in pity which I bathed in forever,
pores still wafting the scent of my egomania pitfall.

This sexually manipulative tornado of body
rampaged through homes,  not blinking evil eyes
as marriage beds seams tore, fluffy white bedding
my lungs trumpeting howling winds of reveling fury.

And lastly, for my life's greatest childish riot,
this peculiar twist of mind, destroyed all three heart beats
of past, present, and future, all pumping blood in time,
so I could daydream, briefly, I was human after all.