After the Surgery

These blatant lives we lead with our guts hanging out between pretty words. I remember (after the failed gastric surgery), when gore spilled out of my prone body; that slow unwinding of blank verse, (the wordless made flesh) - uncoiling in bold inarticulate sincerity. An intestinal serpent – seeping, and I the author of that preconscious serpent still attempting to fill empty shells with delusions and other ill-formed proofs of existence. Then from out of that open wound, out from that that visceral self-revealing, the pulse of my life so starkly exposed at last, saying something - true.