Day 30 – Applying Myself (to Your Altar)
The blood has been dripping
from my fingers, for years,
with the frustration of a leaky faucet.
I must decide, now, if it’s best
to keep wrapping the same corrosion
or just gut the whole damn thing –
drain the heart of the problem,
once, and with all possible finality.
I am standing at your altar,
priests of modern poetry,
with self-sharpened knife
pressed to pulsing vein, welling,
willing and ready to drain myself
for your bemusement,
hoping for only a chance
to smear it beneath you
in exchange for instruction
in the darkest of our art.
to learn your tested techniques –
how you hold pen like ceremonial blade,
angled proper for extracting the most
from each slow, scraping, skilled incision.
to watch where you stab the hardest
and note what gurgles up from where –
what wells of pity, pride, and pain.
to bring the slice to my pursed lips,
to taste it all again just to describe
it better for someone else’s pleasure.
to trace the scars where you prodded
too deeply, too truly,
never able to syphon it all back in,
to hide the extraction sites.
to bury your corpse when it finally runs dry,
to know you well enough to say
a few good words at your funeral,
while everyone else admires
your calculated bloodstains
pressed to pallid paper.