Written November 9th, 2016

I ate my whole tongue today
sitting at the front desk
I cried everyone cried
we privately gave ourselves
the count, the spread.
Many poets have died because
of politics in the past.
Many have starved to death
in cold prisons.
Their words were angular
they built truth out of
rotten apples, sinking to the tin bottoms
of barrels with no sound,
the sudden plummet from coming
to reason that you’ll rot
with your stem still attached,
that no one will chew your
flesh. That worms even
whisper “I won’t eat your apples”
Pulling out the lens, a
breath of fog can cover
the landscape.
I am tired and weep.
Poets fill my mind with
somber whispers of better crops.
Those not poisoned by
hiccups that never go away.

“And the land of the free” she croaks.
“In the home of the
brave.” she can’t even
make a sound.
Now the best part of
me is shiny.
I make noise with my
words and hide myself
from everyone.
I cry and scream but
no one hears, because everyone
cries and screams.
I remember Rise Up.
Can we all remember at once?
Blood runs cold, a
stake to the heart is
not for Buffy’s world—its
crept into ours. We felt
ourselves digesting our stomachs
in the dungeons.
It’s 1600s.
It’s 1700s.
We’ve lost the footing
on the 21st
century and burned
the orchards one and all.