Oak Hammer

The brim, that subtle horizon
warms my cheeks,
my barking liver
and simmers them in the onion pan.
I am cooked
broiled in siamese oceans
where my beard cannot not soothe
the weevils.
Or dragons,
the millions at my putty throat
where curses stash their torments.
And I would rap
like I was in California
begging for that brain colander
to reverbrate like a tyrant on a string.

@Steven Francis poems 2010