Prophesy

I’m playing with the devil’s cock

it’s like a crayon

it’s like a fat burnt crayon

I’m writing a poem with it

I’m writing that down

all that rattling heat in this room

I’m using that

I’m using that tingling rattle

that light in the middle of the room

it’s my host

I’ve always been afraid of you

scared you’re god and something else

I’m afraid when you’re yellow

tawny

white it’s okay. Transparent cool

you don’t look like home

my belly is homeless

flopping over the waist of my jeans like an omelette

there better be something about feeling fat

what there really is is a lack of emptiness

I’m aiming for that empty feeling

going to get some of that

and then I’ll be back