When the empty comes back, I ask
what’s wrong, try to breathe big air
in, and the air won’t go. The medication
makes me feverish but it won’t fill
my hole, and nothing is allowed into
my empty, so I think about how
smooth death might be. This ugly,
bald survivor with whom I cannot talk
squashes energy death requires,
so I am a broken man, empty,
and I wonder why empty causes
such excruciating pain. I wonder
why some power will not end this,
long for courage to find violence.
Pass, pass, pass, pass, please.