Each time I try to roast myself into a darker and richer gravity

that drips into a story seeking to remove sensation from comfort

like a lie wiggling truer than a big toe,

I feel like a fan that’s blowing air out into itself through its behind,

and being anything say-able careens

more like a fart touching me from out of thin air

than a wipe of realization cleaning words off my chin.

“Don’t you say things like that,” the story inside me says.

“You don’t know the first thing about experiencing yourself directly,”

and you know, it’s probably right.

Anything feel-able gets a chalk mark across its back

and out comes the healing,

the juices extracted into a tincture of time-stopping melodrama.

Perhaps the “I” really had nothing to say,

and so picked the first beginning it could off the bush

growing out of my brain

in order to burst open like a sting on a hand.

But if I could only get to the bottom of that

or behind that

or figure out how to get into that without that sky inside me noticing,

is the idea,

except that that sky is a return journey to the sky it already is,

pulsating and itching and throbbing and dripping off an exhalation

that has no qualms about taking too long to turn back into one,

and under the throated tip of mine I believe

something more me than me warbles

the muscles away from my throat

and tears the jerky down off my ankles,

so, I won’t be able to stand when I realize I never have,

so, I won’t be able to cry for help when the day comes

I finally check in on a me I’ll never find and affirm once and for all,

bad grammar and all,

that it’s possible to have arrived here.