We Must Be Crazy

When he was angry
he'd throw his arm back
like a softball pitch
and wind-through-POW
hit his hand
fist against hand
again. again. until we stopped him.

That's what I'd like now
to take a wall out
or a window
throw my fist into something solid
until it shatters.

Is this what it means to be an artist?
We must be crazy
no diagnosis necessary.
What if
he didn't talk
because he knew
we wouldn't listen?

the interior walls of houses

The day that the wall punching happened, you got out of bed and stood,

looking eye level, 

at the softly collapsed piece of plaster. 

A perfect circle. 

You sighed, 

and without looking at me, 

walked to the bathroom to shower.