and i wonder why i

--and on the subject of
touching oneself (on foreheads
with ashes and other places)
i find it repulsive that the
deep greens of your best days are
so muddled by the bright reds of your
worst vulgarities. your verisimilarities.
do you get the feeling that
there's too much pressure
in your head?
have you tried to open your mouth
(let some of the pressure out?)

when you were younger
-- that phrase seems out of
place, you were still an adult,
dead flies would find their way
onto your thighs, into your
wide-open, silent-screaming mouth
every time you fell asleep.
or maybe i put them there.
i'll never know. some things
are so mutable.

but deep below (in all the places
that might be touched)
i can hear the rumbling of
a life discontented, a residing
belief that my platitudes and attitude
are all coming full-circle.
with this frown, i'll have wrinkles at twenty-five.