Today I saw my head on a silver plate.
Today is the kind of day for running away.

And slamming your forks
into the drywall,
stacking the plates in
an order to fall.

Projecting, prongs embedded,
we hang our coats
from the marks we've made
-shells of men shot dead-
and walk out the door,

our ghosts hung on the wall.

Throw spaghetti, burn out bulbs
then leave a few spares
for the inspectors to find.
let them see the damage clearly;
provide them with light.

Make the mess and leave it
observable. run away but
in good conscience. take
this energy you find
between 10 and 11 a.m.
and fly; sprout wings
and leave through the window.

i beg you, do not continue.