Count on you
Too many pronouns in this poem like so many feet just to carry the thought that we humans are mere common nouns pretending to be proper nouns
COUNT ON YOU
You are not the centre of you. The mystery that makes the sausage is less than the best-tasting part of you. The meat in the middle isn’t even the middle of you. That warmth behind the nerve layer isn’t you. You are not the voice inside your head, nor the other voice in mine, nor the schizoid terrorist fragment of us both. You are not your khakis. You are not your meat-sack. Your winning personality. Your body-count. Your breath. Your breath is just a telephone line to reach the real you but you only pick up if you really want to. About as often as God does. You are not the deaf-blind non-existence at the apex, the spine-arching, toe-curling apex of the best orgasm of your life, but you’re getting mighty close. A great deal of you is that dream-you that does things you can’t relate to. Things you wouldn’t dream of doing. Things blackout drunk you, that angry Batman you, does to piss off the other dream-you, that dreamy Bruce Wayne you. Neither is the half of you but either can ruin your life in a blink. Neither is the half of you but either can lift you high above yourself. Keep breathing, keep calling, pick up or don’t, twist that spiral cord like a nervous lover. Pray you care enough to hear what you have to say when it matters that you do. When it’s life or death on the line. When you can’t count on God to.