Ink Shots

Speak UP, talk louder, we can’t hear you, they say: small words, big boom, and I’m running away. I’m up in treetops and grasses and hills. I’m sprinting along the river and drinking my fill. I’m yodeling atop mountains, sliding down snow— Crunch! Brrr! I can’t help but…gooo! I’m flopping down wild on a glass of a lake. Flying mad and bursting fast, yes, for sanity’s sake! Then back on that plastic chair, the bell starts to ring— a call to arms, it’s time… for “active listening.” Wall of pupils, window with fog, I’m in an airless, hollowed-out log. There’s no fire to burn, no machete to hack— of course what I seek is what I lack. I can’t touch the edge, or the roof, or my soul… so I sniff out those tomatoes someone long ago stole. Gonna turn the graphite decibels up, MAKE the stamp bleed through. It’s a dagger, a dagger, a dagger in their hearts, a thousand times one thousand paper cuts! Won’t take the Olive Branch, “Let them eat grass”? Says, “Whip to the bone,” says, “Can’tya stop giving us sass?” No, I’m GOING to scribble to the skies; negative, negative, it IS my birthright to kill with my pen when they ask for my say: and they’re the ones who are running today.