I am not,                                         in the end,
anything but flesh                             eating itself alive
a devouring                                      inside of my own
dark belly of                                     ravenous habits,
pleasures, sugars,                               speaking in tongues,
whiskeyed words                              again, is my numb mouth
lipped and slurred                             ranting about virtue,
version of Aristotle’s                         bullshitting about character,
being, action, not feeling,                  not undressed urge
and dressed up actors,                        but violent or blessed
hands that tender stupidly                  word after word,
without syntax,                                catharsis of doing
good, and then                                 well, nothing, until
something scripted,                           a God’s honest offering,
I did not expect,                               perfectly flawed hymn
falls out of my mouth                        as if the universe
                                       a song
not able to be written                        is shaping itself
and only to be sung                           in the scalded hole,
and echoed again,                              here in my throat,
nerves alive with regret,                     scarred by wonder,
and surprised to offer,                        something honest
unbiled, hardly sober,                        but undrunk,
a raw thing                                       to the day.