How my right index fingernail curls under,
causing it to hook guitar strings,
requiring attention and constant care.

How my semi-polytheistic agnosticism
screws up conversations about
the nature of reality.

How my fatness and my diabetes
are connected and correlated by others;
endless, wearying blood and food vigilance

for the latter has led to a decrease
in the former, which is less of an issue for me
yet is always a source of first comment for others

praising me for decreasing in size;
I tell them it’s because of illness, 
they say “but still…” and I let it ride.

How inconsistent I am
in love for any and all, 
essentially a damn island

when it comes to honoring
connection; how selfish I am
at heart; how mechanically I surmount that

for the sake of appearance; how easy
I find it to dissemble in such a way;
how frightened I am of slipping.

How flat my feet, how dumb my legs
for running; how silly my eyes look
when I am trying to forget what I’ve seen.

How death smells like roses
wherever I find it waiting round the corners
on my path. How I love the smell of roses.

How easily I could make this list
last and last, growing longer and 
wider, faster and faster with the piling on.

How thin these scratches on my surface
that nonetheless 
go all the way through.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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