i.

Drown it in the dirt
lest you peer through time,
becoming a ghost in the
glass of someone else’s past,
print it enough in gloss
and it swallows all you
assume to become the truth,

          in my loss now I

nominate my Self to the
pantheon of the blown-off going
strong moving on via two-line
telegram, no sobbing Dear Johns,
aplomb with my brights on
in a war-time dim-out zone,
at once ready to become

          someone and nothing, a wreck

of avian grace displaced by
what ferocity consumes a vain
villain whose only weakness is
my shamelessness those who read
these things I create crave,
making statements what saves when
grace fails to maintain an

                    ii.

account of what liberties I
take, most for granted, not
least of which this freedom
to speak, to say, whatever
I wish, whatever I want
to excoriate, to grate against
skin with, expressions ambitions tinge

          yet confessions tint, hints of

what lies beneath those surfaces
bleed even my tell cannot
keep from spilling what truths
myth inevitably spells in subtleties
against which combustible youth perpetually
rebels, ascorch as my mouth’s
cotton is with that gin

          only false confidence has hubris

enough to spit instead when
questioned about something serious, something
more important than this commitment
of my pen to be
driven by rhythm and not
authenticity since true vulnerability terrifies
the shit out of me.