Sometimes writin’ a poem’s like RASSlin’ a wild boar,
face like that guy on the subway slav’rin’ and droolin’
you fight for hours beatin’ its feet into place, jab it in the
gut kick it in the sides pound it BITE it when it bites you it bends
and turns and dances in circles, tossin’ hot spit from its maw,
charges like a bull bites like a dog, slavers and pegs you with its
tusks and butts you MAKE no mistake—you gotta twist and turn;
diction's your enemy a ses-qui-pedalian hoof in your face, mouth full
a’ mud for ev’ry rhyme or pun, bloody bruise f’r alliteration;
you gotta TANGle and tussle that brute till its back is to the tree
gotta grab those bristlin’ metaphors and RIDE that buckin’
hog down hoppin’ dirt root puddles chompin' snarlin’ snappin’
that hot slavering breath you gotta hold on bitter twist its ears
till at last it yields… slavering… panting… snorting…
drooling… head limp in the dirt… and you look up to see
you ain’t where you wanted to go… YOU’Re miles from
home… and caked with grit ‘n… sore and red you got…
hog in your mouth and’re… wond’rin’ why…
you went up against the beast in the first place.
