we are burning like a chicken wing left on the grill of an 
outdoor barbecue
we are unwanted and burning we are burning and unwanted
        we are
an unwanted
burning
as we sizzle and fry
to the bone
the coals of Dante’s Inferno spit and sputter beneath
us
    and
above the sky is an open hand
    and
the words of wise men are useless
it’s not a nice world, a nice world it’s
not…

come on, try this nice burnt chicken-wing poem
it’s hot it’s tough not much
meat
but ’tis sadly sensible
and one or two bites ends it
thus