To My-Self

dear friend,
who is in the thick of things
up to his neck surviving twisted hinge
have you ever knelt on both skinned knees
before the picture stationed on the mantle
yes I know they never look the same
catch yourself thinking in all vividness
a good thought you ought to give coercion
authority is not meant to be questioned
turn your head away salvage your bones
and flesh and blood and mind now grown cold
with independence wear the age of the old
humility comes from slavery
Mother Teresa who was ground under a groan
gave up skin for lepers and her bones
in the long run speak of how you or I
should devote leather retire an old drone
mortal assembly cannot, better not follow time
sing like the parakeets do ironed in their cage
taking pride in master’s stuffed shirt
speak to yourself alone write a poem
when tears turn to anger and anger bemoans
you would’ve made art out of your crazy tone

To My-Self

Catching Moss

Midnight’s egress out the doorway alley

emptying its guts over family garden

looking for the break of dawn, lapping air

through boggy creases between tiles

of red sandstone onto the rough skin

of my tongue, I breathe in swallowing peat

nose burdened by the musky preserve

fruiting from spasmodic eruptions’ epicentre

where legs meet completing ultimate cunt

my consciousness for the cities’ bang

for the buck liberates jets of salty gusto

iodine and a touch of phenolic burnt sweat

my skin on hers marry to flavor alpha salute

sunwards

Catching Moss