The Syrup in Me
 
I sing a song to the muck that is in me, to the birds, the tornado, the evil, the fleshy strong part, the guitar, the body, the mind, the syrup that pours into my head and drips out my mouth as sludge.

I sing to the lark in the tree, the worm on the road, the muskrat in the woods, the whale on the beach.

I sing and traipse through gorded canyons and flower beds, licking my bootheels in rapid succession.  Angst rains over my body and climaxes in chunky slices of vomit on the computer screen.

When the stink of puke is off me, I am free.