it is releasing to
realize that
writing from the
gut is a metaphor, there
is no central part of the stomach
connected to the largest vein of the
body that
doubles as poem factory, a foster
home for the poor orphaned poems
you know the ones, their father’s
beat them, brothers sucked them,
sisters dressed them.
this place in the body just holds
the beer that benefactors
poems, it is the recovery center
for damaged poems from
damaged poets where the medicine goes down
nine bottles before it comes up
in this place, acid
re-filters, files-down, processes
scenes they’ve seen, and the poor
bastards are forced to tread
back to
the orphanage,
the additives,
their understanding of a
pre-poem world.
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