FRESHWATER DRUM

you mean for us to starve
walking and crying out,
against a bladder of milk,
"leitmotif leitmotif".
not right there with you.
tablelegs sinking into
cousinwood floors.
a cottonwood fell on me.
i watched my grandpa
hit the head of a living fish
until its earbones fell into my hand
and i join millions
in trying to feed the sea humans.
i don't want you
to hear everything in the morning
and most things all night.
when the weight swings my invention into action,
block with your face.
it is sick to describe anything to you.
i must be sick.
is this the end,
now that the first end
has faked us out
and turned me into
my own fucking saga?