There a whole cornucopia of wild in here:chicory sprouted from the corpses of dead unclesto protect against parasites, yarrow rooted hitters, crystal repurposed from a shattered crack pipeI once found dirty in my foot from my methadomed roommate who is, of course, also dead now. Alla dat grew into a chrysalis of mercury too. In all my cauldronsthere’s a lesson about crossing or uncrossing meor the river running through, and it’s somewhere between Styx and Zug Island. Good luck with your goblets, drink up and be merry today is not your day.
What I really want to know is how it tastes, the scorched earth still burning your tongue or anything that rhymes with the opposite of blood? Does it pair well with the way your bones went to dust when you thought you saw a wound [dead] dear and went to snap my neck? All I know of mercy is located in a bead of my own sweat equity, and I’ve lost patience with your shot clocks. I want to tell your children about their heroes but it’s already too late. I want to whisper in the back of a classroom with your girlfriends, but there’s not an address left on Earth for my exhaustion. So here it is, stick your tongue out and have a taste, it won’t hurt you. All these knives turn acupuncture on this table my ancestors built centuries before I even arrived.