the vapors, the expectorate (draft)

i am stream of consciousness
i am a moment in time caught in a net
stringy, sticky, and always moistly wet
I am hocked up on city side walks, mixed with dirt

once while walking down the street
you laughed and said "my god we're contemporaries"
I imagined thick anthologies written years from now
I imagined my diaries sold at auction, letters bound and leathered

did ginsberg and kerouac and plath and burroughs know?

I can't help but smirk
think of the man who proclaimed me brilliant
"the epitome of the new generation of the New York school"
and when he asked me whom I read
I could only say "no one." or "they are all dead.
and I haven't visited them in ten years"

names fly by, spouted and spurted
I do not know them, I do not know them
is it vain to hope they will soon know me?

I know I am of no consequence
I do not torture myself with perceived importance
I have pride, I have ego
wrapped like bacon
salted and spiced with merry delusion

it is all a giant game of pretend
I am the unicorn
I toss it out
crusty tissues
do with my DNA what you will

the poets we learned about in school
do not compare their verse to bodily fluids
they spoke in deep symbolism and painted with flowers
(perhaps I am more stamen and pollen than petal)

I shall go down in history
as declaring my poetry the orgasmic splatter
that rages and erupts
spilling over your thighs and rampaging through
the pubic mountainside, clumping the trees
and bushes and twigs with ectoplasmic love and disregard
for the way words, the way sperm were intended

I feel in bursts, I am wave-like, and I am sinew
I am finger snaps, I am late night blues
At another time perhaps I was to be born
but delayed in utero, I grew fat and ripe

I am mouthfuls of juice
I am dew and sugar water on your chin
Delightful both tasted and worn like perfume

Like any human that soaks in their own juices
I am marinaded but yet sour on the tongue

I am sputum, mucus, phlegm
I am snot, I am spit, I am cum

I'd rather be a violent, vicious, passion-laden pelvic bruise
then cheap dollar store lipstick smeared on virgin lip

I am a pretty farm girl overladen with perverse conceptions
I am a hermit city girl that speaks in pixels and pulses
I am that girl that you notice only after she has left the room
I am the vapors
The mist and the fog
I am the vapors
and the expectorate