Self Portrait With Ego Crumbled And Tossed To The Side

SELF-PORTRAIT WITH TUMBLING AND LASSO
Eduardo C. Corral

I'm drumroll and voyeur.
      I'm watermark
and fable. I'm weaving
      the snarls
of a wolf through my hair
      like ribbons. At my feet
chisels

      and jigsaws. I'm
performing
      an autopsy on my shadow.
My rib cage a wall
      My heart
a crack in a wall,
      a foothold. I"m tumbling

upward:
      a French acrobat. I'm judder
and effigy.
      I'm pompadour
and splendid. I'm spinning
      on a spit, split
in half.   

      An apple
in my mouth. I know
      what Eve
didn't know: a serpent
      is a fruit eaten to the core. I'm
a massacre
      of the dreamers,

a terra cotta soldier
      waiting for
his emperor's return.
      When I bow,
a black fish leaps
      from the small of my back.
I catch it.

      I tear it apart. I fix
the scales
      to my lips.
Every word I utter
      is opalescent. I'm skinned
and Orphic.
      I'm scarlet

and threshold. At my touch,
      a piano
melts like a slab
      of black ice. I'm
steam rising,
      dissipating. I'm a ghost undressing.
I'm a cowboy

      riding bareback.
My soul is
      whirling
above my head like a lasso.
      My right hand
a pistol. My left
      automatic. I'm knocking

on every door.
      I'm coming on strong,
like a missionary.
      I'm kicking back
any legs, like a mule. I'm kicking up
      my legs, like
​a showgirl.

from Eduardo C. Corral's Slow Lightning
recommended by Derek JG Williams

SELF-PORTRAIT WITH CRUMBLED EGO TOSSED TO THE SIDE
Adam Stone

No doctor has ever prescribed my
attention I taste like
spoon with grape aftertaste

I have been called in sick when really
overslept and afraid of consequences

It isn’t my shadow creeping
beneath your bedroom door but whoever’s it is spent years
studying my shape and breathing at juliard

I sound like dissonant seventh to you when i believe i am speaking
octave

Am i still
talking about us?

Forgetting the you I am a bookshelf
leveled with a cinder block A dog
eared page that nobody remembers
marking Someone should have used a
highlighter A soft pencil

I am a series of drafts
under doorways A confession
constantly breezing through
an open door