Why Eat Why Kill

how hunger boy
mercer must you
brain crane lay

over lap one
dream broom
person starved

down chaff
rain pencil
shaving ego 

peck of
pimpled flesh
on fire

eat burnt crane
eat burnt crane
eat burnt crane

who your gods then
while you wait
for the soupbird to unshade yr life 

in who the cleated teeth
of rain
in mist

in whom the fired
sibilant remnants
a passing

storm’s little
unsuccessful denials
of fire

inside every song
another song
fruit teaches this

white sun flesh
the seed at the breast
thread wrestled button the

crane
burnt
eaten

can’t stack a day’s
strength a night’s
rest at the unravel hotel

truly hungry fools
dream too but
not of confluences

not of gardenias
not of pedigrees 
not the stony feats of insomniac sentinels

mothered
by the
killing maze

milk like junk wool
milk like gauze
milk like hesitancy

might as well
eat your own cane
god and crawl
 

More by Abraham Smith

every little meth

runt crouched in
the dark part of the culvert
every sugar road
half a bag shy
of the flour roads
every here we go crow
spoiled at the touch
of gun holes in signs
love is inside
light wet seeds
nailed into
the crawlspace
between eyetooth
and barred goon

we both split

like summer melon
hit by a part
from a washing machine

yes seeds but no
seeds to bean
the oils from

I run olive
oil all in my glasses

make it so I only see in sleep

wedge of bread
masks the crow
a clown you know
fat white nose

pecked once
and dropped
from yonder pine

your smashing legs
uncrossed

god your dropping foot
evens the ground

whim man mammon

secret soil coital
the dove there
sounds blonde as
whipped oil
please appeal to
wimpling skies
journeying trees
there is but one fence
bone true and 
one blockhead dog
inside
to rend
the smarts
of trees
at journey's end

Related Poems

How to Prepare the Mind for Lightning

In the recesses of the woman’s mind
           there is a warehouse. The warehouse
                      is covered with wisteria. The wisteria wonders

what it is doing in the mind of the woman.
           The woman wonders too.
                     The river is raw tonight. The river is a calling

aching with want. The woman walks towards it
           her arms unimpaired and coated
                     with moonlight. The wisteria wants the river.

It also wants the warehouse in the mind
           of the woman, wants to remain in the ruins
                     though water is another kind of original ruin

determined in its structure and unpredictable.
           The woman unlaces the light across her body.
                     She wades through the river while the twining
                              wisteria

bleeds from her mouth, her eyes, her wrist-veins,
           her heart valve, her heart. The garden again
                     overgrows the body—called by the water

and carried by the woman to the wanting river.
           When she bleeds the wisteria, the warehouse
                     in her mind is free and empty and the source

of all emptiness. It is free to house the night sky.
           It is free like the woman to hold nothing
                     but the boundless, empty, unimaginable dark.