Bread for everybody
I have ugly hands
and my father is an ass
The dryness and blood-stained cuticles
are not his fault
Though he is completely blameworthy.
On Tuesday I water teh vegetable section
On Wednesday i uproot.
Glancing in the mirror and seeing an old cracked
woman, I
Underestimate wind and the viscocity of
ancient glass.
I am missing hunks of flesh--
not a metaphorical description--there are
actual sections of meat noticably extracted from my surface
I used to bleed
inot those sterile bed-pan-looking things
But I gave that up.
I learned to clot.
My left hand is affected by this rare
(but real!) disease, and I catch myself
staring, really staring, at the hole
The fingerprint grooves continue right inside,
as though i was born stamped incomplete.
I am ruddier in there-a strange yellowed
tint of red, and tender.
Since losing half of my hand, a piece of shoulder, both kneecaps, the fleshy piece of stomach around the belly button, and 17 pockmarked areas on my face and neck and breastbone, I've figured out that the back-back-custodial-door-entrance to every University building is always (in the 24 hour always) unlocked, and that roughly 6 homeless men a year discover this convenience, per campus, and hide in the shower stall, pissing into the communal drain, peeping over the low walled partitions when the 18 to 20 somethings are exploring their fleshy pieces (most usually intact) with soapy, wet, tiny, manicured hands.
and my father is an ass
The dryness and blood-stained cuticles
are not his fault
Though he is completely blameworthy.
On Tuesday I water teh vegetable section
On Wednesday i uproot.
Glancing in the mirror and seeing an old cracked
woman, I
Underestimate wind and the viscocity of
ancient glass.
I am missing hunks of flesh--
not a metaphorical description--there are
actual sections of meat noticably extracted from my surface
I used to bleed
inot those sterile bed-pan-looking things
But I gave that up.
I learned to clot.
My left hand is affected by this rare
(but real!) disease, and I catch myself
staring, really staring, at the hole
The fingerprint grooves continue right inside,
as though i was born stamped incomplete.
I am ruddier in there-a strange yellowed
tint of red, and tender.
Since losing half of my hand, a piece of shoulder, both kneecaps, the fleshy piece of stomach around the belly button, and 17 pockmarked areas on my face and neck and breastbone, I've figured out that the back-back-custodial-door-entrance to every University building is always (in the 24 hour always) unlocked, and that roughly 6 homeless men a year discover this convenience, per campus, and hide in the shower stall, pissing into the communal drain, peeping over the low walled partitions when the 18 to 20 somethings are exploring their fleshy pieces (most usually intact) with soapy, wet, tiny, manicured hands.