Detour

Instead of my common heart,
my overworked soul, I give you my feet:
unsteady, crawdaddy-rough chargers
upon which I pace
and stroll and run when chased;

I give you my fat-educated
and expanded belly, ready to bounce
and shake and heave with emotion
or digestion, establishment of my place
on the path I walk, going always before me;

I offer you my unmowed head
and my aging ears, the ringed and studded
captives obscured by the overgrowth
above.  I give you my dimmed and unfocused
eyes.  My staggered teeth.  My flaked lips

that pronounce well enough but rarely say anything
well-considered, preferring to be ruled
by the blurt of the moment that may be truth,
may be nonsense, may not be either just yet —
but you should listen for it to settle on one or the other

in midair.  I give you my tattoos, blue words
stretched and softening as they age, now mellow
declarations that once were strident and loud
with clean edges and obvious, blocky contrast
to the pale and blubbery hide they rest on.

Take me:  furred chest, small nipples, creased abdomen,
flattened and spreading ass, stick-figure manhood,
take every dear deficiency on a worn anatomy.
I am a body made of stories, I can tell them all,
and failure and addiction and weakness led me to them;

they’re nothing I can recommend, but they’re all that I can offer,
outer suit of the common heart,
the overworked soul,
the simple jungle I’ve made of my life. 
You can take it all.

Read me by reading the unfortunate shape I’m in.
Beauty is too easy when you do not take a detour
to the unveiling.  Follow the signs,
come out at the destination you desire: I am waiting
there, magnificent, if only by being here still.