Rumplestilskinned

I’m good. I’m OK with this
walking, talking, working, being —
all the while wading through, falling in,
playing in, loving in a field of shit.
I’m OK with this. I’m good.
Live with it long enough
and you will be too. I mean
live with it, really learn
the game of shit, the process of it.
How we made this for ourselves.
How we added blood and flesh
to the mix to make shit into bricks.
How we Rumplestilskinned it into
this yellow stuff and called it gold.
You love to be revolted by it.
I’m good enough now with it to admit it
and if not to embrace it at least
to know how far away we are
from a clean-up. You are going gentle into it,
gently forward as if you ever could be clean
having been born here, raised here, made here.
You won’t even admit you can smell it
on yourselves. You say it’s the other
side. You say a lot of things, talking shit
and it smells like it. I’m OK with it
which is not about acceptance
as much as it is about seeing it and saying
it’s there. It’s everywhere. I’m soaking in it
up to my neck sometimes and sometimes
I play in it just to keep from drowning.
Sometimes I even enjoy the game. Sometimes
I even dig the music. Sometimes I have to
take a little joy from watching the horror
rather than let my self slip underneath
the crust on top, never to come up again.