at my dreams

chicken in a box

i jump off the bed—
cold granito floor
judders my core—
legs & spine ablaze
lower brain
doused in fire.

i dread the
conflagration in my head
as i peck away
at my dreams
like one conditioned
inside an arcade game box.

slot a quarter in the box
& the turntable
i stand upon spins—
a hatch opens where
i peck at feed.

to eat & not to eat.

so long since
anyone’s come
by & i
had a grain or two.
don’t pass me
by / i
say with shopworn eyes.
don’t walk
by / i
will u to slot a coin.

i haven’t fed
in three days—
slot some money / honey
provender’s behind the door.
be a hun / i
may be your child’s nugget some day.
walk by that pinball game
straight into my heart.

“I don’t write out of what I know; I write out of what I wonder. I think most artists create art in order to explore, not to give the answers. Poetry and art are not about answers to me; they are about questions.”

— Lucille Clifton

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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