To break with our routine
is to bulge a little inside
or sprout slightly outside
from the pudding skin
we are born into.
A red ceramic vessel
splinters under clear black mirror light.
Wet soil spills. Branches of roots
and new from the skeletal walls
we were duped. And new
and we break those. We break
from our habit; We break
from our tradition; We break
from the confines of what we learned
and repeated in a colorful orgy
of tying shoelaces and writing
uppercase dubba-u’s; Bodies leaning forward,
as though reaching toward impossibility;
to be joined with a lowercase q or cue.
We, the human beast; We were not born
to remain plastic. To let ourselves just be
another body of circumstance.
We, unlike our ancestors, we’re not
born to die, but to live— for we do live,
now. And that is all we can ever be— is
now. Now, running circles
through the emotional, physical, mental,
and sexual habits of our enduring frustration;
Trapped; Trapped like beautiful white custard
beneath the rigid ceiling of crème brulee,
burning a blue flame brightly; eternally;
We are waiting for that inglorious spoon
to crackle the claustrophobia. We wait
for that outside intervention.
We wait for some silver Savior.
Waiting to be consumed by Him;
In one long line of human beasts,
leaving behind a trail of confessions.