I can sit and drum for twenty minutes
and you sing the same song the whole duration.
The same reverent chant to your mother,
dropping your hands to make a rhythmic beat that hovers.
When the song changes I think you have written this before
with another woman. A drummer or whore
who played on my instruments in my debt soaked house
foreclosure and her body on the wall sighing out.
You put hatred and anger into all the loving work
I set in paint and beats. Why my ego still hurts
my mind when I look at online spanish I don't understand.
Maybe the heated anxious fear of destruction
and the visions of the fire, consuming men in flaming collars in the deepest regions,
their noiseless screams across the pages of all religions.
No comments:
Post a Comment