Nothing is yellow here. I am surrounded
by brownstone giants who have risen up around me,
poking square holes in the gray cloud ceiling far above
my head. I haven’t seen a cyclone in years, and
the closest thing to the charcoal funneled eddy of wrath
that I’ve seen since I’ve been here were the twin smoke pillars of grief
pouring from injured and dying towers nine years ago.
Rising in my belly,
Brewing in my chest;
A gnawing need gnashing its teeth on my soul.
This goes beyond mere appetite,
Beyond the mountain tip-top of want
(The dastardly beast which growls in my flesh
And reminds me that I am a
And not a disembodied head of ponderings
Or a deep violet bucket of melancholy and feeling).