Buffalo Journal: the poem is a threat
the poem is a threat
one man’s flute is another man’s fumble. i am sick
to death of listening. every road here needs changing,
outrageous names, how quick we are to call a woman
what she is to a pervert, a process, an empire. don’t ever
call me mother, ma’am, i am not yours. i belong to love,
ever hear of it over the leaf blower? ever hear of a broom?
do you even feed birds?—nevermind the shit of it,
the pre-dawn racket. you were dreaming nonsense anyway,
can you name a feeling, or just four native grasses?
call me manmade again.
