Stomp

The first rule is you don't talk about it.

There is a first snap

like ripe fruit

beneath my boot

before the mouth flaps.

Tiny white imperfect munchers

break inward, arrows pointing

down a screaming throat

streaming with blood.

Inside of every man rages

a beast pacing a cage waiting to

break free and maul the world

to pieces.

This is where we let them loose

to fight like dirty dogs, cock fights

in a pit dark as pitch, vortexing

with the ugly thoughts we chain daily.

And so I crank back my leg again,

a child endlessly kicking a ball that

cracks back with flying

teeth and spit and dirt and blood.