Poem 14: Swamp Thing

one flesh
some recipe
to stoke hunger
to cannibalize myself
good, i am cracking
myself; at low tide,
at high tide, i look
at the stars and wonder
what, as the surf begins
to whisper sweet nothings
in my ear, i feel low, and i
feel alone.

bright, orbs of shifting gases,
dumb, fat and vapid, belching
hot air, glazing indecision; well
what have you done with my
childhood dreams?

is this vessel, screaming empty,
a milk cup or a chalice for wine?
the sea boils with anger, and
seasons with salt the purposeless
anonymity of unused clay.

sinking futility, why am be born with
wings and forbidden to fly? why be
gifted a stinger to never sting?
why be the tension and not
the two extremes? why a bee
to never taste the honey of which
it dreamed? i think i was born a clock
and given hands to watch the time go by.

sinking dutifully, what can we celebrate
in our brief and fleeting lives, how much of me,
and how much of you?  We are insects stuck in
our skin. We are mush. 

will the very hungry caterpillar
ever take up his cocoon suit and
become a well satiated butterfly?