Tonight I quell the angry poet in me,

slience his rants reverberating in the hollow of my ribs.

He is not wise. His rhymes

are bitter and obtuse.

Each month he loves himself to death.

Each month I love myself like phases of the moon --

come new moon, I break my love

and watch him rise up from my open mouth.

Tonight I quell the angry poet in me. 

Tonight I quell the angry poet in me,

who holds his ink-stained fingers to my wrist.

When he believes in me it feels like living.

When he is angry I feel like living. Feel like longing.

I follow, I go where his voice goes;

into the soles of my shoes, into the earth

into a glorious grave he writes for me. I see what he sees

through his damp and urgent eyes, shallow as the sea.

I see the stone, the grave, the light and infinite sky. I close my eyes.

Tonight I quell the angry poet in me. 

Tonight I quell the angry poet in me,

the ancient hungry man, the psychic boy, 

who shows me in my future nothing good.

He shows me in my future endless soul

and no meaning. All words and no meaning.

Wind songs without meaning. Desert songs,

sad lonely angry poet songs, empty songs empty of meaning.

I want to hold him. I want to wrap him in my ribs. I want to freeze him in ice and bury him in

my own grave. I want to hand my voice to him. I want to hand him my pen, my soul, hand

him my writer's hand. I want to make him know. I want not to go where he goes, see what he

sees. I want. I want. I want him not.

Tonight I quell the angry poet in me.