I’m still waiting for a star
To go supernova in my gut
And evaporate my stomach
Acid. Missile control has yet
To shoot nukes out of my ass.
But I am patient. I’m in no hurry.
I will write what words live inside,
Whether poisoned by puffer fish
Or lushly consuming wine.
My fingers belong to me; their usage
Depend upon my discretion.
We have our hands for purposes
Determined by ourselves; such is the gift
Of free will. We do others a disservice
When we glare at them behind
Arrogance-tinted contact lenses.
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen