Does it matter that I’m a good poet?
That I can peel back your skin with
The edge of my tongue
That my fingers can pry
Into your heart
All thumbs
Hitching for your subconscious
To hop on in
Does it matter that I’m a good poet
That I’ve mirrored your secrets
Under harps of saliva
That I take the time to overthink
So you don’t have to?

Does it matter that I’m a great dreamer
That Jesus comes by in a John Stamos disguise
Or the disguise of e.e Cummings
Or the jolt of
A tumbling tower

Or the colorful mask at a ball
Or the proclamation that I AM
Fortune’s fool!

Does it matter that I hate the silence so much
I create my own buzz?

And it’s your noise
Lingering in my inner ear

Your mouth in my cavern
The pulse of a breath so heavy
You desire the oxygen lanced
From the lung
For the buzzing to stop

But I won’t let it

I’ll drown in it, goddamn it

You need to breath loudly
as much as I need to hear it

Without your noise
The emptiness would take over
And I’d be one of those annoying enlightened types

That like themselves.

And once that happens
Will it matter if I’m a poet?

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