Author Information
-un
Gotta do something. It’s coming. It’s coming like a train, or a thunderclap you wait, breathless, for. Surprise of an expected break in space so loud and there it is, pour yourself into it, scream into it and push your soul in there. I know why the wise sang in resonant wordless syllables to drumbeats. It comes—it will come—it is coming—and if you don’t pour it out it rips out of you. In you it builds up like Babel, up to the sky with unaligned dialects, all kinds of
words maneno
palabras
ordet kata
parola
—I bet you don’t even understand me now. I’m throwing up words hoping you know but they deflect.
Defect.
Gotta do something. Gotta scream to get it out. Gotta write some words down, stupid poetry you hate and hide in notebooks, stupid pictures drawn with a hand so forceful it burrows backwards in your paper; shiny graphite in the ditches of your pencil marks
making some kind of record—like graffiti, like a stain, like bleach on your clothes and blood on the floor and scars on your face and
prove you are really here and you got a soul to pour
see how it drips down between the cracks
and the train is running into you, through you, the tower is falling down
fiery around you, better let it
I wanna fill the world up with my screams
I want the world to run through my small collection of stains.
