My brain was restless
like frog eggs ripe with tadpoles
eager to burst free.
Notching no arrows,
violinists aim their bows
and pierce many hearts.
How happy you are,
like a fine, fat pig in mud
deaf to the whetstone.
seeping white pus from black bark;
a gangrenous thumb.
The age spots spreading
along her arms, legs, and breasts
were Time’s watermarks.
Ink dripped from the quill,
blotching the still-life sketch with
life’s own signature.
Such harsh handwriting,
as if the paper was skin
and each word a wound.
How sweet the jingoist song
of a butcher’s blade biting to bone;
how sweet each nation’s anthem.
Silver silos stood ready
like ballistic missiles set for launch,
the fields aflame with sunset.
When their tongues wagged with envy
he thought them green laurels in a breeze
and crowned himself with their leaves.
Her heart was a creek—
the water shallow, stones slick,
She fumbled through her own life
like an actress baffled by curtains;
never could take center stage.