[Eŋg]

A handful of things I’m rarely thankful for:
my brain, its beauty, and a pair of hands that wrought
the path I forged – a path that’s worn
because I keep snoozing in a circus. Circling
surplus sleepwalkers move without a purpose;
I’m worthless.
Or Earth’s best when she nurtures (my nurse left).
My words shift
spent chemic blood to remind my words’ intent.
In a sense I’m indigent;
I need my Self to reinvest in the idea of me.
I need rhyming to knot my livelier conceits.
I need lines that I jot to provide a concrete
I can flatten my face against.
Slattern, the way she dressed, but natural, amazing breasts.
Pattern: this pays her rent, happens I spray her legs.
After, we make a mess
to capture the paltriest taste of death.
Life that I grip remembers to take a breath.
My mind in a stint where it stays in an ancient tense,
the life that I’ve lived questions the way it went,
It’s an act just like this that I sprang from.
Damn, son.
I’m not thankful that I’m my Dad’s son.
I’m thankful that I’m handsome,
which means my priorities are messed up:
I’ve wounds these fine threads can’t dress up.
Bleeding the thought is cathartic I guess, but
revisiting notions is sort of carving the next cut.
Yet I’m thankful for the hammer, the anvil, the pencil,
shaping my gait for any hardship I went through.