SILVER SHOTGUN

my grown trunk organizes its sections
and stands. i’m hearing
coffee-colored bile pour over my cutlets.
working to prefer the gods of luck
over lights of force,
i don’t explain that i am only cooking
a book to eat it
to overlap its stressors with my need.
futures bang their heads inside the
white fudgey fists of a new class of adults.
boats will bring them here, lands that yell
for gentry.  a chorus of rattling tables.
dropping fists, i imagine.
i don’t know. but now i’m reaching
tensile for the hell.