Emptied by the force
of breaking a bad habit,
I’ve crumpled a bit — a slight 
deformation only,
a temporary folding
of internal time and space
by the suddenness
of the vacuum.

I can never return to
my first shape,
never again
be smooth and shiny
and ready to hold
whatever is offered
or poured into me,

but I will expand.
I will return to my 
full capacity, or at least
I will expand enough
to contain my expected
multitudes; at least, that
is my intent. If somehow

it is never met, if somehow
I remain this crushed — 
or worse, if I break open along
a seam or sharp fold and must then
be tossed aside, it will be

intent that carries me
to an end I am meant for 
if my purpose and impact
cannot.  

I will not pretend on that day
not to be disappointed,
but I will never say
I did not know it was coming,
and I will not regret the day
I opened my mouth
to pour out for good
what I’d borne for too long.

dear
me,
mr
brown — oh

shut up
shut up
shut up
shut up. you are

so full of noise.
of course we are
coming back
around to you as subject.

god. shut up.
why it’s always about you
and your loud, pale reaction
is a mystery. why is it so rarely

a dark red action,
full of your own blood
and justified ire? why is it so 
rarely original,  

rarely worth our time,
rarely worth
anyone’s ears or
eyes — 

shut up
shut up
shut up
shut up.

dear me
mr brown — enough
of your same old
same old same old empty.

shut up
shut up
shut up
shut up.

oh, sorry. not entirely empty.
inside you is a key to
a locked box and inside
that locked box

is a switch
that turns you off
(although you are
apparently more turned on by

such yapping than
by silence so all this
is likely futile) but find that
and shut up shut up shut up

shut up —
for yourself if not
for us — dear me
mr brown.  dear me

you must get so tired in there.
so tired having to speak
all the time even in your
sleep — must be — how could 

any of this
have been done
by a conscious mind?
tell that yapper within

to shut up
shut up
shut up
shut up. 

dear me mr brown —
shhhhhhhh.
that’s enough.
enough. trust 

that it can’t hurt and
how has
the yapping
ever helped? 

shhhh.
shhut.
shut.
shut up.

there is a place of
silence where you
could be better served.
shhh.  enough.

enough.

Born to all 
possibility, then
narrowed
and channeled toward
this.

Delimited by
no plan, in fact — more by
a machine running over all
who are caught in its own
delimited track,

reforming all through
plain force
of weight 
and inexorable 
progress. 

I push back up
towards full height on 
these smashed
legs, pushing up with
these broken arms;

I fail, I keep falling but
more and more often 
I am at least able
to land
on my back:

my eyes
wide open; my face
not crushed
into mud;
in pain but awake

and aware
of a rumbling
as that machine
turns back. I struggle
to stand again

and face it, to fall
again but this time
with full knowledge 
of what has
felled me.

It may be
enough to say after that
that I did not die
in my sleep, that I knew
what crushed me.

In flames,
but
no one notices.

So seared, so
charred; 
no one sees.

Supports are
crumbling, walls
bend inward

toward eventual
collapse; all
apparently invisible.

This is how
we sing
our American song:

with eyes closed to
red glare, shouting
from atop

the lungs;
blind, in full
strained voice

as if killing heat
could be deflected
by enough noise,

as if it won’t
fall in upon itself
soon enough, as if

its caving scream
could be drowned
with a loud enough

anthem — in flames,
singing; tumbling
to a full chorus of

oh, say,
can you
see now?

To be startled awake,

to become suddenly aware of 
ancestral animals
coiled within you,
dreaming —

to forget your name,
your income and
your furniture, all your
trappings; 

to get up and dress and step outside

and stand
in the chill
under full moon and

let its light stir
all those inner beasts, let them
open their eyes
and see through your eyes and
feel them wondering where they are
as they turn and stretch and then
resettle into their long sleep
with reset dreams,

is to be forced to choose

whether
you should go back
into the cluttered house
and sleep

or sit down on the sidewalk,
your back pressed
to the stone wall that frames
your tiny yard, looking up with 

yawns and whimpers vibrating
in your bones, shivering
in delight as you wait
for dawn and whatever
comes after dawn.

A full grown gryphon
has come out of the woods
near your apartment complex
and now perches upon your car,
staring at you as you prepare
to walk to your spot and leave 
for work.  This is going to be 
a problem, obviously — 
how to explain this
to your boss, how to explain this 
on the clearly soon to be necessary
insurance claim, how to explain 
the fierce power of the real world
to this beast in such a way 
that he slinks,
embarrassed, 
back into fantasy. Fortunately,
you were born and bred
American, thus having had long experience
with grand and august mythology 
bumping against dirty facts,
so you square up your shoulders,
step to the gryphon,
and get it done.

Radio preacher, how you do talk —

lips looser than Lucifer’s,
forever spitting hate
from a so-called Christian face.

Did your God forget
to put a muzzle on your judgment
when He laid His manly paw
upon you to make you,
or are you insisting 
He was perfect at the craft
and this is — YOU are– 
are as good as it can get?
Are you really your God’s
best marketer, making claims
for your own humility
before Him
even as you
aggrandize yourself 
and scrape
another layer of patience
off of me?

Radio preacher, get you gone — 

you sticky fingered priest,  
you knife tongue pastor,
you pope of the nighttime rope,
you saint of the burning necklace,
you deacon of past prejudice and future petrified heart,
you congregant in the church of bending love
into daggers and handcuffs,
you bishop of murder under the high altar:

your game is
looser than Lucifer,
who at least
did not hide his dark hatreds
behind a Cross,
who at least
owned his pride
at not being in the slightest way
anything like God.