For the Blue-collar Bedwetter

I.

Soaked in a vampyric river,

veins jetting with myxozoans,

rubbing prune like a grandmother

kneads blubber off baby cheeks,

until I woke, and for bank peddled

like a hungering shar-pei—

lost fighter, bred winner, soul lone, bawled

in liquid X—to seethe

softly again in lukewarm,

shallow reflection—a

phantasmal silhouette. Me.

II.

I drowned through my dreams; woke, then downed the Sun;

whined, soured his skin, prayed, itched his stain, breathed in

my musk almighty: Get me off this sullen creek! But

no one came to change my sheets, so I soaked and

dried on a sponge bloated from my own tears and reek.

III.

I splashed with Styx in a shoal enclosed by larger waters,

nebulous and deeper than the celestial pools above.

She nudged me away. Lured me to a well shaped familiar.

Lowered in, I melted like butter, burnt like smelt. I gaze

through the small hole and watch falling stars, shooting rock sugars.

She feeds me a daunt hymn on this alcove sunk far below the fanfare,

until I rubbed the sand out the edge of my eye and realized I was crying.