by erodal

i read a published poet who can’t hear; he hates hate and thinks he can love without skirting suicide; and, and; his girl isn’t fireworks, but she had a mind like locked-up chinese inventions, and her hands did that instead of playing with matches; or what about: an ordinary girl with a firework mind and hands made for matches; and part of me wants to tear everything down, so I take it out on the deaf.