in places that I shouldn’t go.
Contemplating wearing shorts.
Dressing Satan’s cane too sparsely
always brings a tidal wave.
Emoticons of chromosomes
in bold italics underlined.
Cattail dregs in ditches, well,
becoming swamps because of eyes.
Root-bound anger. Watered envy.
These are issues very fragile
rocking on the ego-edge.
Flesh exposed is more than naked,
so much more than emperors
without their clothes to cover them.
Snail slow to come around.
I know I’m quite absurd to think
that body image, well, defines
the summary of what is worthy.
Still, the spider spins a web.
I have had to dance the dance
with tarnished epic candlesticks.
Because I’ve always bagged them up
like silver hidden from the air,
you have never seen the scars
from belts of braces rubbing why?
in faces wet like waterfalls.
I am writing caught between
the veins of maybe wearing shorts
is not the horror that it seems.
For every beckon bulb that shines
I hear a dreadful cattle call.
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