My tears taste like cookie dough.
My fingers smell like a sacrificial lamb gone postal.
My poetry is covered with dung and amniotic fluid.
I remember our first meeting and how I thought it would be the first of many.
I was wrong like I am about so many things, but that goes with the territory when you’re an artist who sacrifices everything to gain even an inch on the untreated page.
Football and poetry have nothing in common even though I believe I’m suffering from a concussion and nothing can heal me except for your melodious touch and Medicaid.
I made a vow to an internal life force that I believed to be my higher self.
If these internal machinations have malfunctioned and I was lying to myself I’ll do my best to continue with this delusionary outlook and an inner child who refuses to acknowledge my existence.
For just a moment let’s turn the tables and pretend that art is as important as sports and love is as universally accepted as violence. Let’s give into our most primordial of instincts and write a new social contract with our hearts and minds instead of with our genitalia and financial statements.