raw

There are no more ways to feed me.

I wrote you the most beautiful bowl of fruit;

but my words were twisted up in

the flames of your

blue-lip fire:

nodding its heads under

their bodies.

Cooking.

Don’t cry.

We are made up of the same piece of sky.

And I can’t leave, you can’t leave,

we’ve tried; and

we’ve tried to mix up our miseries

and we can’t even do that right.

I will look for you

in the crowd of my personalities.

Hold me, hold us, hold, don’t stop.

You are the vast ocean, but I’m every drop.

Swallowing your anger

is an empty pill that

makes me hungry.

volume

When did he stop roaring? And why. 

The way he opens up claws stream from his tongue and lift me onto a higher cloud. A fortress in the tone of
anthems and access. 

Give him back the way he holds up the universe with a rumble, throat tumble, vocal mumble, where did mine go?

If it gets too loud in this cafeteria we’ll hold up a sign and shackle closed your chords, and if you even let out a hiss of a whis

per, we’ll drag you outside the crowd to your own separate table. We’ll take your voice and your name and your squad and you’ll punch your own head repeatedly because we said “shame” and you didn’t 

know any better.

brute

I thought I might give it a name.

It was sweet and it played; it was tame.
The West told me, why not? Go ahead.
But the East shook her dazzling head,
and said:

If you give that thing a word,
you’ll teach it hate and fear, I’ve heard.
It tends to hoard and make a lord
of names in cages just like birds.
It’ll think its word is better
than all other ones, I swear.
It’ll label you and know
your label’s different. It’ll care.

I hate to even think – but
it could learn its right from wrong.
Do not name it, please, I beg you.

So, I taught to it a song.