I should be allowed to write a poem     that slakes     & snakes through melike a swallowed ribbon     coils     around empty space     answersa question I did not know I was      asking     I am always askingfor someone    to bring me a bouquet     of exactly the right flowers    this poemis asking you to    hunt me down    like an eight-ball     I want to be shotinto the bowels beyond     the pocketI would like you to break     a cue     over your knee & annihilate     the urgeto talk things overthere was nothing     then there was something     uttered     I am trying to benothing again     if a poem does not     rinse the red from me     it’s a problemto try & pull     out of the brain     that which wants to stay     all these poemstapeworms     segments     digesting     what is being digestedI’d desecrate any body     to get what I want     honey & curled mint     bloodis not important   only the stain   can erase   a name   I am tired of it   the livingthe way a robin tires of the blue     of her eggs     I have becomehungry     for the large silence     at the heart of mea chronic fermentation     I’ve madeall these portals to nowhere     in the cold snaps     between small warsI tend to the poems in their sick beds     send psychic messages to anyonewho might know     low flame & precipice     I deliver my second handpremonitions     when the colors feel correct     I skim the black offthe night     will fall in love where there is barely any     atmospherea poem has never tried to stop me     a poem has already predicted this lackof oxygen     I should be allowed to write a poem that can’t fight backbreak it     off at the joint     like a wrist     slack with resignationwhat consumes is also consumed     I wait patientlyfor the tip of my tail     to reach the inside of     the tip of my tail