For my earthly offense, I was sentenced
to be barred from the sweet and tangy
barbeque pit of the gods. Soon after, however,
I was ordered—by I don’t know whom—to steal
my access back because what happens under this sky
stays under this sky! And if such a spark
should pixilate my meat, well then so be it.
Portion Anxiety arises when you order a dish
to be split with one, or several “friends”
and, upon it’s arrival, you detect the overzealous
salivary glands moistening
the palate across the table, engaging it in
a telekinetic ambush upon the dish at hand.
In that very instant, the meal becomes as tense
as the traps of a bull in the ring. When in the face
of such danger, my inner, National Guard
takes the frontline in a strategic, rigid stance,
attempting to defuse my attackers before they attack.
In love, my plan to steal more than my portion
back-fired in much the same way as Prometheus’s
little stunt. Did the Titan anticipate, or did he cause
Portion Anxiety (the hidden killer) by tricking
hungry gods into choosing the lesser selection of flesh?
Of course, his intentions were to benefit humankind.
My killer cravings were not lit by such a noble fire.
My own tender loins asked me to seize the moment
for the sole purpose of plumping it up to full-capacity.
In my myth, I was chained to a cliff in Malibu
and was forced to endure the sensation of my metaphorical
silicon being feasted upon by gulls. Misrepresented
by “The Implants”— a winning team of defense attorneys
who simply would not bio-degrade—they tried to make a case
that Spiritual Anorexia is a natural state of matter
over mind. But, to my great fortune, some anonymous
patron of mine freed me from that grimmest of fates.
I now own the rights to my own betrayals.
I have evaporated any trace of ridicule.
I have suffered enough, so why not let the other
lovers indulge under my warm blanket policy.
In these disfigured, western parts, the relentless sun
took a strong liking to my idle status with pure, adultery-ated
torture. On that cliff, I stood alone, but not so alone.
Tantalos, that cardinal sinning, incestuous cannibal
remains there still; forever fated to wade in the prime
surf below, unable to catch even one tasty wave.