Sick of Looking for Answers
A late
supper is
better than
no supper.
Random sex is
better than
no supper.
Anxiety whets
the appetite
for things
too awkward
to swallow.
It’s a
culinary world,
a digestive
tract with
no exit.
Things backlog.
The word
becomes flesh
&
out pop
the cannibals.
I wish
I had
more respect.
For the
tribe of
my elders.
For the
melting pot
that we
stew in.
For slow
thinkers.
I tap
messages
on the
skulls of
the dead.
The grime-
covered
hand of
the trickster,
flashing cards
drenched in
blood.