Sitting in labyrinths of cobblestone intestines
I’m learning to eat the entrails of sacrifice
only domestic, never hunted.
pick up spoon. put down
put down. put-down.
pick up. um . spoon.
um… putdown.
there are motions for eating and I do them.

soothsayer, look down
pay attention to positions, shapes
knife. butter. um…
bread. no. breadth.
better. no. butter-better.  focus.
knife. better. bread.
knife, knife of haruspex. knife breadth.
okay… deep breath.

I have divided the livers
and the watchers of victims.
I have written on
the anomalies in my bronze living,
what I should look for,
what they should allow for.
my protruding viscera,
my ancient autopsy of starving.

Starving made me easier to tie.
easier to lift. made me feel
gutted out like finished
ice-cream containers
but, starving made me
full of household gods.
made me divine. made sheeps fly.
made days disappear and made cold cold cold seem like
simmering. made staying out of sight a piece of cake.
cake. starving made me rich when I found little
boys betting quarters for eating bowels of
goats. made me small enough to fit through
playground gates so I could swing
swing in earthquakes, and portents.

now, I listen to Memor, a man
who knows nothing of starving
talk about how starving I am.
tomorrow I have to advise
tomorrow I have to weigh
tomorrow I have to swallow
tomorrow I have to
tomorrow I have
tomorrow I am half

and starving made me whole.

There are starving artists, yes.
But sometimes I think them more nourished,
Healthier,
Wealthier,
Than many with more dollars to their name,
And food to their claim.

Because at her worst, you see,
The starving artist still has this,
At least--
She has her ideas;
Her work;

Her art,
I mean.

The starving artist might be poor,
Losing in the box score
When all is quantified and qualified for measures of
'success'

But the starving artist is free.
He is alive,
He is allowed to be.

And he has his art,
His heart.

Because the worst kind of starving there can be,
You see,
Is to be stale out of ideas--
To be wallowing in writer's block
Staring at the blank canvas in shock
Holding the pen above the paper,
Cocked.

And unable to fire,
To release,
To express.

The worst kind of starving artist,
Instead,
Feels repressed.

The worst kind of starvation
Is malnourishment,
Not of the soul,
But of the heart--

Of art.