Anatomy

This poetry has no spine.

Has nothing to keep it standing.

•

It cannot be malicious

for death has robbed it of its sting.

•

This poetry has no fingers to point,

nor feet to carry it further than parsing.

•

Maybe not “parsing.”

That implies some understanding.

Disorganized,

it tries to draw a line.

Place hash marks so events

line up with all the emotions

jostling for space.

But, all it knows are circles.

•

This poetry has no stomach.

Can’t keep anything down.

For godssakes how many days

lying on the ground?

•

Has no knees to knock together.

•

No fists to clench to beat bloody.

•

Not even a wall to ram a head

it doesn’t have against.

•

Has no shoulders to shake.

•

No vocal cords to shut up.

•

This poetry has no ears

to listen to therapy.

•

Has no heart to give one damn.

•

Has no nose,

not even to smell its own bullshit.

•

All it has is a mouth.

•

Angry, red,

with gnashing, black teeth.

•

Greedy,

a mouth that bites

at everything.

•

Marking the passage of time

by how often it can spit

into eternity’s face.

•

A mouth with bad breath,

a dead breath,

heaving full into the face of redemption.