i feel

cleft.

clipped, like a coin

toward shapeless-

slim-shorn with some

numbing powder applied:

a morose cobblestone in some 

uniform place of gray

toothpaste in the mortar 

a daily bread

and the brushing like 

god's chess clock 

(its been on his turn

for a while now

since 1947

for a while now)

 

to know is to draw a wound 

from a well,

watered sour

a cynic 

drafted and ceaseless 

turning trenches 

striking hallowed ground 

sparking flint 

to spite myself

as none are spared the dulling

of the spade 

 

it hurts, you know. 

it hurts. 

 

like a simple syrup all dried up

tasting paste in all those envelopes 

meant for letters never so much as sealed 

or written

by the twisting tongue kept instead

in my cheek

coiled and kept until the teeth beneath cracked

until the spine bent

and the dreams poured forth

nameless dark red spittle

left to die

on the slate

 

like the wracking of joints

against that which does not yield 

like pure toil

like the holes worn in my abdomen

and wearing still

tender and swollen lobes 

contusions and pus-lout chafing 

an alien body sanded down softly 

until it's ripe

until it's coffin-shaped

 

and still it's not enough for the poison of rest .

and still it's not enough for the poison of me .