not true

Hail the authentic me, the voice of the best unreasoning
grate off my skin with the stench of rotting parmesian
twirl my heart strings on fork and spoon, then swirl my blood
on your tongue until you know my vintage

Hail the sincere disquieting persona of my poetry
peel off my soul with cinnamon like an october macintosh
pluck my brain from that gnarled crabby branches
with a wrist flick, press me, then leave while I ferment.

Hail the minor key of my musings, my folksy music
peal my skull with your cracked kudos and blow me
like your grandfather's trombone with clenched lips
and the sparkles of some blue rhapsody in your eyes.

Oh Please Discover Me Know me. Love me.
Not for hell's sweet open mouthed kisses, the breast milk
of all poets, from all poets, but as architect
as designer the dastardly blessings of whole words
and the sweet artifice of honesty.