Still at this age, my crudbug child dramatics
split my conscious brain
like dried motel soap, too late
to clay together its pieces.
It is embarrassing to be haunted
by the crayon-sketches on the bathroom walls,
a cave painting,
showing the next evolution of self
where the last one became extinct --
a corpse of consciousness
zombie self -- clawing to be remembered.
I think too much,
and ask myself questions like
where do I begin? drunk on solipsism
and California wine. And don’t pretend
to act all cool like you don’t do it too.
You and I both know, in front of a mirror,
standing alone, naked,
we slick back our wet hair and make faces,
practice our reaction to the drudge ahead,
wide mouthed looks of surprise
and half-blinks, we try to live in slow-motion.
I can’t share your consciousness, but I practice
these contortions because I was born at twenty
then again at twenty-three,
neither times from fire or ash,
or with any great vengeance in my heart,
just a need to not remember.
So take me to be grounded,
into the soil
to cake my fingernails
and allow my flesh to be eaten green.
It is death death and rot
that I can dig out of the fertile earth
and emerge breathless, panicky,
positioned fetally in mud and rain,
laughing because I forgot yesterday.