Hunger is a many-chambered stomach; carnivorous echoes, bovine impressions. Plunged penknife, seared by candlelight; flesh. Jaws dripping, red ink on cave walls. Forest casualty thirsting blue blood. Writing desk covered, pulp-fiber pages; a silver tray that serves luxurious roast; filth is wiped away to waste. What hunger is this?

Lay it out

Poets stacked like aging pages, crumbled and collected, precipitate knowledge in the backwash of some alluvial library. Crystalline meaning, layers of finely ground feldspar, as much sentiment as sediment. Stratified, half-spoken appetites. Stalagmite never be tasted, dull buds. The hungry wrote with more salt. Ebb tide exposed, hunger elementally persists; a gold vein to extract, a fugue begs resolution.

It figures

The universe only may know the swelling, erect, menstrual, organic truth of it all. The spine-turned-gelatin, boy-meets-vulva, girl-meets-gallows desire to create something from the unseen, unconscious, uncool. To turn the concrete obscure; a deafening drink for the eye, a champagne window for the ear. Sun light bubbles yellowed pains. Sweet skin tendrils glisten like mercury.

Dark and dull

The body feeds. Sculpts. Paints. Writes. Sings. Builds upon hunger. Up and up, and still there is no end to the depths the mind and soul will sink to, not necessarily in search for the answer, but to better hear an inexpressible question. Unearth ??? anew, and answer with creation that is part mint, part mango, part car sin. Over gin, tumbled ice drowns the tongue, her mystery filament, a dream's transparent freckle. Its frozen breath takes life deep.

Literae

Nine hours of desk. Digital murder. Stomach eats itself. I sprint for soft tacos. Three of them; a drink. Dollars? Four of them. Frugality: the pomp in this step. To Jamaica, with more lunches like this; I will travel in no time."Instead" says Woman, table adjacent. "You can watch me, my daughter, and two boys eat this single plate of nachos. One drink between us. Free refills, six flavors. Yes, they will go home happy. But me?"

A question

Fabled appetite. Not so honest as the lean street. The sour and the solemn sweet. This hunger of craft and lust. Dim-lit houses, caffeine with liquor; hip replaced by hip, plastered membership hairdos, opiate mind-core relevance; tabled motions, ideas stained and smeared, absinthe breath scatters them to the floor; the dust that gathers. And the wind whips it airborne; the rain's grey ambiguity soaks all to silt. Appetite is slippery to the pen. Clouds split like granite, water beads on polished stone. Light and air; fresh-pulled teeth, greasy mud dries on the blade. Hands like leaves to the sun. Synthetic photo, eye beneath the aspen bark. Fingers noodle in brain salad; they must be wondering. What's for dessert?