and the cold wet sand of your heart
dropped in clumps down
through your stomach.
Fetch up a memory of raw-throated sobbing,
when you beat the sofa arm or the floor
as if it were responsible for the
wasp's nest in your heart.
Open up, little glass, fill with it.
Leave pretty sunsets for painters or postcard publishers.
What we're after here is waking inside a coffin,
falling from height, the whole empty belly
lonesome lack of it all.
Don't shake your head like you don't know.
The thing you cannot even think is the thing you have to tell.
Will they consider you crazy, the only one
who ever did/felt/wanted/made love to
Behold the mute tongueless many saying you spoke for them.
The poet is the person who threads out their own veins,
stews their every experience, fears nothing,
stands on one leg on a high wire,
all because they can't not.
Otherwise, they would just be cross-eyed babies
waving bright toy telephones to nobody,
and calling it art.
Music: DJ Dero The Horn