Sobs a hundred

I am the smallest man and my sobs
catch silly thatches up in blaring fire.
So tiny am I I stare into screws
so their faces may twist how mine
twists how children do at table wine.
Monstrous building, your beams have
daunted me at ivory corners,
have taught me what inches mean
built upon riddled knees.
Why must I bow and ravage the head
you split unto me; why must I
count every friend a Nazi;
why must I enjoy the aphids
and their cutting songs instead
of human hands long upon me?
I am the smallest man and my story
was tapped on the foreheads of flies
that tapped and shook the city wide
by tiniest story-telling phalanges
in burning soda the first men told of
talking plenty amputated of the Rosetta.
I am the smallest man to have enough,
I am the smallest man that sunk
into the pores of his gentle daughter,
that broke a mongoose how sick
old rattlers’ organs seek largess,
that fed each year with shortening hormones
as the drifted savior would on purpose.

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~ by Jeremy on March 17, 2011.

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