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“Thought is made in the mouth.”—Tristan Tzara
Writing all night
until your fingers break,
knuckles spasmed
purple and black.
Awake at dawn
every morning
your hands are wrapped
around your undead
father’s head, the same father
that abandoned you
and your brother
before either of you learned
how to speak.
It’s the thoughts made in the mouth
that are articulated later
through the body
in ways impossible
to imagine.
Murder hurts;
anger’s worse.
Tonight every dictionary
the whole world over
is filled with nothing
but lies,
pus, slime.
No one can spell
the sound of a pine tree’s leaves
caressing the breeze,
can conjugate a mother
bear nuzzling
her cubs.
White mud tenderly
embracing purple lava.
Skunk skunk skunk skunk.
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