Cacoethes

I love having—
hating the feeling of wanting.
Wanting cuts my guts as consequentially as diarrhea.

I steal casually,
like second breaths after waking,
or proper newborns latched onto Mama’s nipple.

It is inspired vice.
There’s a teaspoonful of buccaneering Barbarossa
sprinkled in my lines.

I commit careless crimes—
not much outside the magpie’s range.
I am the cupbearer at Mass now.

All men are wanting persistently.
Other men’s carelessness is providential,
inviting nosy rats to the quiet catwalk.

I collect on neglect,
underprized nuggets
that poke at my wonder,
scratching curiosities.

I stole wives off petty husbands,
decaying cars banked by roadways,
the overhanging fruit of fat landlords,
words from Webster’s to ennoble intellect,
thoughts from tinkers;
Christ’s reflection—but the mirror stole it back.

Psych docs lower me on leather beds,
wanting to safe-crack my mystery.
I tell them Barbarossa blood ties tarnish, birth bandits.

Shrinkers countdown—
ten, nine, eight...
I am paroled to a fantasy field of rare, clean earth, of no lack.

There is my First mother.
She is a beauty queen.
Me, unseen.

She is careless,
drawn by luster.
I yell, spoiled apples!

Me, unheard.

She tastes.
She calls my First father to probe the coveted yield.
I am bidden too.
I eat.

Theirs is mine.
A primordial gift is constant craving.

addictiondesirehumanityfree verse

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