Monkey Politic

I am bored of the appearance:
the turned down cards,
the noblesse oblige.
Look, I come in my pajamas,
I have toilet paper stuck to my shoe, my fly is open, there is something between my teeth, my pants have come down.
I am tired of grammar, and spelling, and punctuation,
as clues.

I will grunt my grunts, unedited but in the soul,
and be done with grace.

I will not rehearse to be.

I will take down the imposing door.
I will write in my human hand,
for the record.

I am tired of avoiding the shame
of being human.