Typewriters clack with their meat cleaver keys,
Stamping their feet in red letters,
White ribbon scriptures hang cracks to the walls,
And I cant catch a break of a word.
Fragments hang backs to the rafters,
Sheets pass their last owner’s best incantations
Up into my skin with precision.
Preachers sling hooks from the plaster,
The faster they preach and the faster I reach
For the speech I relapse and retreat.
I’m ready, I’m skillet, I’m heat on a leash,
And I cant catch a scratch of a word.
I’m sweating out ink and I’m gasping,
Grievances creek in the gutter,
I reach for the speed of the speech and release…
Each word a new son to another.
Rats on the Run 