Ink

(Noel, your poem reminded me of a pantoum I wrote a few years ago about blow. There's really nothing better than blow and poetry. That's food for the soul.)

The bird trapped in my ribcage,
fluttering as I jump off the white starting line,
invokes the jaw of a Titan. I
grind bone to powder with trembling hands.

Fluttering as I jump off the white starting line—
Closer to horizontal bars of black and flesh— I
grind bone to powder with trembling hands
and bring the world to an extreme sobriety.

“Closer to horizontal bars of black and flesh,” I
criticize (deflating day dreams)
and bring the world to an extreme sobriety
through his hollow voice that comes to possess one. He

criticized, deflating day dreams
that, although far fetched, are important.
Through his hollow voice that comes to possess one, he
taught me of the crafts that go into making a light bulb

that, although far fetched, are important.
But often I think back to how he
taught me of the crafts that go into making a light bulb
with fondness, for it created a man.

But often I think back to how he
bore the fell beast and not
with fondness, for it created a man:
the true savagery that darkens the jungle.

Bore the fell beast and not
the bird trapped in my ribcage.
The true savagery that darkens the jungle
invokes the jaw of a Titan: I.