Ribmeat Of The Family Tree

The Sad Deliverance of Sweet Meat

7-22-05

Lazy sunny summer suburban afternoon;
soccer moms run full-tilt
and drug addicts gather for communal sleep.
The whores jolly along upsetted by my ogle-
might be a fine time
to wear more than a bikini top
over the beginning chubb.
I don't stare if the feel isn't there;
I don't talk if my words don't share.
Not afraid of bein' alone
if what I reap prior to
is the prom queen wannabe
that became the starlet wannabe
that evolved into the neighborhood
also-ran has-been neverwas.
I'm in that place again:
allergic to love
with lust as my salve
like drinking a boat to shore,
distilling the sea in ratio to a world
by transcending like a feather through a rock smoothly.
My presence becomes the hives
on beauty's unblemished, tan frame
that hides when I arrive
or shudders upon ignoring my calls
after she clings upon my words
and giggles her number kissingly.

How much of the air,
the air in which we breathe,
is filled with love
and not floating decomposed bird shit?
When do I know to share or hide?
Damn my favorite, summer season.
I'll never be enough to be enough;
tough to be anything more
than everything I've got.