Self-Portrait

Skipping, blind and smiling
down the hills of thought; laughter that
makes the heart heavy;
gladly unruly— in fact, yearningly-so
because what greater joy than
that pocket of feeling
of which you know you are
most certainly alive?

Amble, static, knock-kneed,
every which way my heart is leading!
I’ll forge spires from my own mitts,
watch them fill and flourish,
knowing we all have too many
flaws to be perfect, but never
too many to be greater.
To this I cling
as if there is nothing else
for my rawhide fingers
to cling.

But,
one face is not enough for me.
They’ll skitter to and fro,
like thoughts bursting ecstatic
from the mind of a poet—
for you, all for you,
it was always you.
“Replace the part of you
that smells the flowers.”

Do I know myself anymore? 
Because there is a girl in
the corners of my mind
who still scrabbles about,
giggling to herself, singing songs, 
and making a racket.

So I clench my fist like a tyrant, 
and watch the way
my knuckles turn pale;
I am a drunkard stumbling towards 
every which way my heart is bleeding;
suffocating that girl, stowing her elsewhere. 

And so I am falling 
like the very moon when God
slices away the thread of which it hangs.

Although, while we inevitably hurt, our blood
still rushes, our lungs still burn, and
our eyes leak whatever is in our chest.
(We are not dead yet.) 

So when I open my fist and
the blood rushes life back
into my fingers, I bend my
head down to press my nose
against my fingertips,
because my hand is now
as red as a rose.
And I will laugh like a child,
just for the hell of it.

I still have many faces,
that is true. But does it matter,
if they’re all smiling now?