I’ve tasted many tongues,
but saved the slammed doors
and holes in sheet rock for
the one’s I’d somehow outgrown,
knowing them sincere like
an afternoon alone or
tastebuds in the morning sun—
after enough drinks to make me social,
after enough drinks to make me honest,
after enough drinks to make me pure—
unwilling to apologize for the bad taste
tongue tied like a little kid hoping
to be lost in the shuffle and left alone,
where features seize to be and
voices make no sound where
nobody feels and nobody hurts.
Words Of An Average White Male 