My lack of appetite for
glossed images, glazed pastry and cold
word salads can be seen
in my avoidance of all things
chemical or technicolor.
I'm not sure if this is real
or just reactionary
but when I think
about my roommate's voice, it turns to tin.
He is speaking from inside
the wall, inside a snare drum.
The more I yearn for greeness,
the stiffer my words become,
the harder it is to swallow.
There is a banquet of sound
resonating from these empty branches;
there are whole days I want to consume.