Rennie Ament

The Natural World

I want to exude my own cement,
I say to the barnacle.
The barnacle doesn’t speak.
I could make it speak,
but it would be me in a shell. Poets
are always climbing
inside the sun and exploding.
I leave the barnacle to barnacle
and be a speck on a rock.
Today, it rained
death which they brew
often in bland or grand buildings.
A family went to a mall
and had their brains
blown out. So now there’s a brief
saying of words
to the sky. And the sky
responds with the low bass notes
we hid inside its mouth.
And the notes form a very old song
that goes La la la I’m not listening.