"I'm not angry," barks
the man-child with fingers
clenched into mittens
made of tendons
and brow line hunched
like the backs of cavemen.

The veins
             that line his neck
      form boiling canals
                      when he's quicker
          to set ablaze
than a paper doll
             in a brush fire.

The annals of his ancestry
could fit into a matchbook--
a pocket-size anthology
of swinging *****
and temper tantrums.

The sweat his pores harvest
                both quench
                          and drown him.