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Frame
This is no longer an art form
The way he grasps the hammer
With his callused hands
Hammering away at someone's
Insides.
Its makes a big bang
When the metal hits the ground
And it causes a stir
In my heart.
But not a jostle or a somersault or a freedom.
It doesn't even bury me or conjure up a distant feeling or memory or play toy or seriousness.
The ceiling is disgusting.
The light is fabricated.
The roaring trucks are angry.
These are all predictable things
Unwanted things.
Fleeting things.
Desperate.
I stretch for words that I do not know.
I play with thoughts that I can not see.
