The Taste Of Blood.... Poem by RIC BASTASA

father has a square jaw.
so did grandpa.

when they get angry
it is like the earth sliding its
plates.

earthquake of fear
and regrets of the flower opening
to a sky.

i inherited a square jaw.
how can i deny this?

both hate poetry. i am deviant.
i love poetry.

both hate me. words are cheap.
and metaphor is sissy.

when i get angry, i take
refuge in a cave

of silence. i listen to water
dripping from the outside world.

i see roots of trees falling and
i know where the river is underneath

this existence, this life is
a tunnel where a red water runs,

who knows that it is red when
it is dark and flowing?

except perhaps this tongue that
knows the taste of blood.