maybe it’s crap –
words are shit-stains
written in excrement
and forced out
in red-faced,
constipated rage;

sometimes (rarely)
they explode
in dehydrating violence
leaving me empty
and exhausted;

either way
they frighten
the quiet, gentle masses,
sending them running,
to hide
in the safe dark places.

maybe i just can’t
self-market
to save my life
or reach around
and glad-hand
the right people

so i do what i do,
consuming,
digesting the world
and serving it to you
all piled up on this
nice white platter,
prêt-à-manger –

dig in.