pulled teeth

I could wrench the poetry

from me

from the base of my bones

from the cracks in my teeth.

 

I could wring out my mind

til verbiage drips, thick and viscous,

onto the pages.

 

I could fuck shit up

call it a Jackson Pollock,

I could popularize the intentionally

unintentional mistake.

 

I could call each stutter

a turntablist scratch.

 

I could be merciful.

Gently allow the flow

the pitter pat of a spring rain,

seeping from my brain

after the lightning cracks of its storm

begin to fade and give way

to a sweeter thing

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