A Monster

Monster
is multiplicity of me — awkward me,
smooth me too,
ripped up me in claw costume,
clay head, raw meat eyes.

Monster Me drinks a little, expand
each bogeyman, and then all
see it, see me.

Each Monster is not
response.  I don’t answer
with me: Monster Me
doesn’t talk,
just stands scary —
animal leather-hand,
vegetation jaws, mineral
lungs. 

You gave Monster Me to me,
enabled me
with reasons
not to be shown off.
Made me these jungle desert
alpine scimitar teeth.  Made me
folklore legend leftover spooks.
Made me a book
read and tossed into a garden
on fire.  Monster Me, a pair of
clamps on a veined muscle.

A monster is not
mothered or fathered;
to be rather stark
it rises in a stand of
pointed sticks, sore,
and sleep
never a bed.

Monster Me, I am that —
all of that, all of them,
no me in there
I do not want to flee.

Tags: poems, poetry, meditations