by Feng

To write a hopeful pig
that will not change anything
because a pig is irresolute
and committed to nothing
is to reject the floss
that dances between mouthfuls of flesh
I am thinking about pigs that fly
that is I mean
people wholly entrenched in their manatee life
that is I mean
pigs that swim
where the alligators and motorboats fly
Because you know you’re a pig
secretly in love with the big bad
the big bad
blowing at your brick house
breath so hot and sweet your spine warps like unearthed worm
drenched in muddy water
I have contemplated the hairs on my
chinny chin chin
Sometimes I dream of the wolf
and then the forest is not clean and cool
but infectiously soft
like the gutting after sacrifice, pearly greens and blacks
underneath the bright
and I let the wolf inside me
howl and root
because it had already happened
because there is only the one.