What kind of salt do you want rubbed in your wound,
looking so fresh and powerful in its pain,
like the burgeoning flower of the empty plain?
.
Perhaps you want ol' sea salt,
single cell Neptune's delight,
for the aching untouchable gestalt?
.
Perhaps you want Morton's --
for when it rains it pours and pours,
with you muttering they're all whores?
.
Maybe you drink brine, neat,
no ice, like the best French brut,
or tongue polish the Nazi boot?
.
Maybe Himalayan's what you're after,
pink and holy to salve your disaster?
.
The bonds of sodium chloride --
You can run but you cannot hide --
will season your devil's pride.
.
Could be human tears is the poison you have picked,
like some parasite of others's sorrow,
feeding the entropy of tomorrow.
The dogman sicked.
Bone of contention licked.
.
If you're dead inside
a right good seasoning might be all you need
to get your manliness back on its steed,
like a dulacha'n
totally insane
and doing Paul Revere's ride,
bouncy on his high horse,
though too late.
