I cannot bear pigs.
Sensational pig and his
black foods stomp to some top.
False sonatas spit raging.
The chatter of our troubles is an aspect
of breath, glass pulled from fire,
the wool of our ensemble.
I cannot bear time.
In the each other
there is this desperate we
crying down and across
each other, getting older.
Getting closer is the room behind
the door before the door
to it gets worse.
There is a moment
I cannot bear law and its
hot white golden rattles.
On the street we hiss.
On the street we blare.
In white directions
America is expensive. On the street
we eat. Its malnourished sermon
the cabinet of our chains.
This poem is supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts.
