There are such good words
out there, things written and spoken
in ways that pierce armor and break walls,
things written by alleged heroes,
that it is hard to believe
that they grew in the same manure
that gives rise to fungi, mold,
and wild cancerous weeds that sting
and lift heinous welts on the skin
of the unwary and those innocent
of the scent that has lingered
for too long unnoticed or unremarked
by those in thrall to the words.

There was a time before we grew up enough
to understand that evil is inherent
in everyone, to understand how much shit
there is under the lovely flowers,
and we would let a friend go in a snap
when the scent reached us in a cloud that rose
from a treacherous mouth. After all,
there were always more friends out there —
a simple shift was easy in grade school, in
high school. One week, we had these friends;
the next week, we had others.

And now, all we want
is to be back where it was simple again;
where shit was shit, and words covered nothing,
and all the vision you needed to live a good life
was a sense of smell.

I can smell you from here.
I can’t decide if the flowers
you hold out to me
are worth the way
my gut is churning.
For the first time in my adult life,
I want to be back in high school again —
close my locker, turn my back on you,
pretend I’ll never run into you in English class,
pretend I don’t recognize that smell
from the times I’ve put my hand
before my own mouth
and inhaled before opening it
to speak to the unknowing. I want
a bell to ring, and I want to run
all the way home.