Out of control
from the bees who’ve nested
in your glove

Fling it off then reach
with a bloated hand for the doorknob
to get out of there

Bypass
the kitchen sink
the cold water and antiseptic

Run to the easel
Try to paint the flinging
and the urge to do it

Call it
“Art by accident and misadventure”
It’s crude and fascinating

Makes a splash
Go buy some more gloves
and try to replicate it

Stick your hand in a hive
over and over again
React in paint

The word “pain”
makes up the greater part
of the word “paint”

Some days
it’s the whole word
and the whole world

The chase, he says, the chase is
what’s most exhilarating. 

Try it,
if only for the weediness of it —

how it leads you
from the trimmed lawns
and edged paths
out to the cattails
left neglected by the waterside,

out into the weeds and mushy ground
where you’ve always wanted to seek things out.

Try it, like you would
a rollercoaster.
It’s the loveliest fear by far
that you might lose yourself
in the wonder of what might happen
if a bolt comes loose or a memory
breaks rogue-free
while you’re out there.

Try it,
I’ve opened my hand to you, he says.
Take it,
or don’t;

the moment of choice,
of knowing there is a choice
and agreeing to choose,

will be more important than what you actually choose.

pretended indifference
to what the tree sheds on my car.
in truth, rage as comprehensive

as any felt toward evil
or avoidable tragedy, which
is the same.  no filter

for fault.  it’s all my fault —
parking the car there, my fault
because I can’t afford a garage.

my fault the weather that kills
and floods and refuses to quench thirst.
my fault darfur.  something will pay

and it’ll likely be me.  my fault too,
that: self-destruction a sin, an incurred cost
of doing my business.  those maple wings

aren’t going anywhere except
between me and my hairshirt.  same with
words regretted, actions untaken that led

to trouble — between itch and rash
they go and when i keep quiet in spite of
the insane sensation i know it shows

on my face and my fingers
and the twitching of my cheek. pretended
indifference fooling only me. everyone else

knows i’m bugging and all because
nature and i are at war because
i can’t tell the difference between us.