Tuesday, November 2, 2021


 Poem #31

Where is the poem?

That queasy feeling of the early morning

You can’t tell if it’s roiling sickness

or the empty churn of the hungry 

Do you put something more in

or let it all come back out?

If you feed it who gets sated,

And is it even enough?

Will it erupt in waves of sour black bile, 

And if so, who gets to clean it up ?

Perhaps it may stay down

And nourish ravenous

Flesh for a short while

You know you have to do both

Fill yourself up.

Be the voracious glutton

Who consumes his own life.

And when it’s too much

Your body just seems to know,

Releases it all in streams 

Of stanzas or prose.

But this isn’t quite it either.

Flush as much as you can

Down the toilet.

Sop up the rest with torn rags.

Make sure you're all alone.

Only when you think

There couldn’t possibly

Be anything left,

When your gut

Is empty and bereft

Of all but a shallow pool

Of acidy water brash

Corrosive enough

To dissolve bone,

Once you reach this stage

Beyond hope or doubt,

Do one more thing.

Stick your fingers 

In the back of your throat

And save what comes out.

This is your poem. 


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