I gave the art world its box back

They would rather you shackle your expression

ask for permission to narrate our own yesterdays

As if lungs excuse themselves for breathing

You too see how the critics have attempted

With every metric and measure to bound

these stanzas Into barbed envelopes

Into lexicon coffins…. of standards

accosting the fruit beneath my words

(They are the birds)

that purchase steel beams,

and spend their days

Building cages for their bodies

Tarring their wings

praying we join their labor

hoping their misery

finds an acquaintance