The Sin of Submitting, #48

A glove to the face, and then
to the ground, what we now call
the punk card, a challenge dropped
at my feet. You laugh at me.
You dare me to delve deeper
than the posters, pasta, false
postures I fall for. Skin deep
and with great breadth. You suggest
considering the social
and political reasons
for my erection, not just
that it is, and indulge it.

I sit in this chair, listen
to the doc call you father,
or label you muse and claim
I claim all women as spark
and inspiration. Pastor
calls you God and me exiled,
imperfect, sad creation.
The master deems me servant
child, claims I please myself
as I please those around me,
often and with diligence.
These hands they lay upon me.

The chair is comfort, as are
the definitions, lipstick,
a dead father, broken lines,
gravel voice of my mother,
pleasing coo of my pleased wife,
and the body, the distant
and unreachable Gods. Go
deeper you challenge, under
the surface of the water.
I can not breathe. Cannot scream.
The pebbles are smooth and long
washed over. Come up for air.

Some will attack this living
with great insight, some with hope
of understanding, or worse,
being understood. But I
will skim its surface, mallard
unable to dive for long,
mammal trapped on the surface,
lover of sun and the breast.
Pick up your glove, you’ve left me
with work to do, among it
won’t be cleaning up after
you. What a waste in living.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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