donut hole

Recently,

I’ve been stuffing

my body and organs with

tissue paper, empty,

slippery butter and

holes,

 

I climb through donut holes,

as a small mole in woe at

indentations into fried dough,

dirty oil bubbling

oil tackling

flour, butter and all.

Now, the final product sits

through my finger like a loose

ring: tender and appealing

and

whole.

I contemplate,

how shall I make it

sickeningly sweet?

and maybe if I ingest all that sweet,

I’ll discreetly be as sugar,

delicious,

delightful?

I’ll eat around the hole,

until the hole is no longer a hole

walk out of its role,

for what’s around it is gone,

now it’s just one whole,

nothing.

maybe my own hole, in between ribs

and nightless nights

will also be gone?

whole or un-hole as long

as its no longer…

hole.

 

I’ll swallow and gobble

this donut and finally I can say

something solid makes me up,

makes who I am.

This little amorphous saliva,

mucous dough, sugar ball has

a purpose,

and a hero’s journey.

Mouth to stomach, intestine to anus.

It is bound to cross the finishing line,

reminding me, forcefully,

that maybe I can too?

I must be able to?

It’s like trying to sink in brine.

 

Teeth stained by moist

divine, liquid sugar:

guilty for that hopeful nectar.

 

Eating this donut:

destruction of the void.

That cave in the middle, an intruder

and I’m a marauder without a map.

If my hole were to cave in would it be full,

fulfilled? Filled in,

but in the right way?

 

The problem, plain simple,

sits in the middle. The

hole.

Infinitely a hole,

infinitely nothing.

It’s okay, I’ll gobble down

sugar coated outsides

and poof! the hole softly

fades out of existence,

my hole slowly fades

out of existence for…

 

one,

two,

three,

 

buy me another ring-shaped

fried sugar thing, or whatever,

as long as it can pile up

inside me and I’ll feel this fullness

for once,

even if its just in my stomach.

 

I know no other material,

usable material to fill this tunnel.

Advertisements

medicine tree

cross eternity

with me

maybe not

maybe hide

behind my medicine

tree

behind pills

and pulls

and puffs

and that’s

where you belong

on that faraway

land

isolated

raging desire

waiting

catatonically

still,

me in

bones

 

 

 

still i cannot

make my mind

up,

will you

be my personal

turpentine?

that’s to decide

until you

show up at

the pit of my stomach

familiar,

hunger

 

 

dear

medicine tree,

 

 

i’m sorry

if i’m not,

chewing

swallowing

chewing

and if i am,

either way,

i’m scared,

but i’m

not

and i

want to

see your

skin tight

dry crusting

lips bugging

begging

but i do

and i don’t,

and i don’t know

whether to swallow

your pill,

or not,

or swallow it,

then spit it out

 

 

so if i have

this masochistic desire that

underwires the

fire between

my brows

forgive me if

i like to deprive

in order

to strive

so slowly,

slowly i’ll

hide a few snicks

and snacks

here and there

and i’ll stop

gulping that last

spoonful

i’ll stop sitting

i’ll stop breathing

i’ll stop expanding

or contracting

 

 

sit under

my medicine tree

i’ll pass you a pill

i won’t ask you to

pick between

blue or red

because i won’t

be the pill

but the space

between them

resting along

your ribs