Tuesday, December 11, 2012

An Adam Fell Poem (1)


                        I don't know how to say 
how I feel politely, or poetically, or without 
the jugular and collapse of the immediate 
heart, so tonight, I won't say anything at 
all. Just stare out the window at our 
stunned little writhe. Hold back the 
strongest urge to knock out a few of the 
capitol's most critical walls, replace its 
fiber optic cables with lightning bugs, 
replace the investment bankers all with 
bunker busters. I lock eyes with the 
capitol's bright and empty rooms and admit 
that, sometimes, deep in my affluent, 
American cells, I miss my body carved to 
projectile. I miss trebuchet shoulders and 
knuckles flaked to arrowheads, miss my 
hands massive and molded from molten to 
the bolts of ballistas. I miss blackjack and 
cudgel and quarterstaff and flintlock. I miss 
pummel and pike and I am not proud of 
this. I know it's not a healthy feeling. I try 
to un-arm, to un-cock. I try to practice my 
breathing. I try The Master Cleanse, The 
Stationary Bike, The Bikram Sweat, The 
Contortion Stretch, The Vegan Meatloaf
The Nightly, Scorching Bath, The Leafy 
Greens and Venom Television, The Self-
Mutilation of a Winter's Run, but we can 
only cleanse our bodies so much before we 
realize it's not our bodies that need 


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