All this quiet hurts my ears.
Doesn’t anyone see my blood spilling over walls?
Sliding onto the floor, my life is carpet–sucked
from my arteries.
Why is Mahalia singing about rainbows in the sky
when hell is flowing right through my living room?
They could remove their shoes you know;
show a little decency for Christ’s sake.
The decency not to track my blood
in distorted patterns
of Florsheim’s and Kinney’s specials?
Ears hurt in the quiet of all this existence
performing half nelsons on my heart.
Am I that invisible?
Don’t they feel my soul dying?
I want new blood.
Thick, sweet and rich.
I want them to hear, oh yes,
I want them to be deafened by the silence.
I want to walk right over to my kitchen sink,
grab a glass and squeeze; squeeze until the
sides cave in; squeeze until it shatters
into a thousand pieces; squeeze
until my life flies, spurts, drips, then
runs down the drain.
I turn to serve them breakfast.
They drink their juices.
Eat their pancakes.
Yes. The pancakes.