My emotions are exiles in the wilderness
making cornerstones out of their bones
and my brain is a brittle loaf
of black, unleavened matter
I tried to break to feed the masses
but they have no appetite for night.
My body is a museum of foods
that people have forgotten how to eat
as the grave holds out its hand
for another charitable donation to the foodbank
that waits on manna from heaven
when it isn’t raining vipers.
I don’t know who the fuck I am.
I’m just this man who keeps happening
a blink out of time with his pulse
like a white guy in a black jazz band
who thinks he plays like everyone else.