I         feel ashamed

          of my self

          why?

I         

         start most poems with

I         

         am always thinking of my self —

         what I’ve done, what I’d

         like to do, how to do it. I’m thinking of why I’d like to do it.

         I’m thinking of the fact that I’m thinking about myself and

         what I’ve done and how and why and when I will be done and why and 

         how no one could ever want a person so consumed

 

        What's your thing, kid?

                    I ask my self quite often, you see

         Me. My fears. My motivations. My qualms. My temptations.

                   All those apples I’ve eaten

                   I’m sorry, sweet Eden, but you were a bore

                   and ‘gratitude’ has yet to nestle at my core and I always

                   burn the roof of my mouth while drinking tea

          Me.

                   All those minutes that pin back hang nails

                             that day in the grass when she told me to go

                             and I wore my pink shirt

                             and I asked three times — a charm — if I could stay

                             and she told me to go that day in the grass

          My fears.

                   Those tastes that melt like earwax on my tongue

                   that first day at camp

                   when they took my stomach with them, home

                   to where the pointy fingers can’t see me

                   and I cried — nice and quiet — that first day

           My motivations.

 

I         feel ashamed of my self

           for

I       

          can't catch a dice that bounces from a beersweatsoaked table

          can't quote Spinoza or Cummings

          can't eat just one bite of peanut butter

 

I        feel ashamed of my self

         for 

I

         can't hold other people’s words with my hands

         so much slipping

         so much slipping

         where do the slips go and come from?

                    Me.

 

I        feel ashamed of my self

          for 

I

         do not have the answers

         to hold

         the world and it’s slipping

         it’s hungry, it’s angry, it’s pregnant, it’s split up and spit out

         off the cuff and in the house

                 My fears.

 

I        feel ashamed of my self

         for

I        have hair on my legs and

         wasted such sweet time and soft skin trying

I        am trying

          like a middle aged tycoon

          gone hunting

I         am trying

          like a mama bird flicks her babe

          from the nest, fly goddammit

          fly —

                     and sometimes 

I do 

                     and sometimes

I thank my self

for 

where I’ve flown

​

                    My Motivations.