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I like poems. Here's one I wrote a while ago:
People rise in the morning, apply their clothing, and arrive at the stadium on time. Easy. But like a many-layered UPC code, connoting price, and weight, and volume, there is more beneath one's own will or intention. We can stack our coins on the dresser, we can arrive on time, and we can clean out our own intestines. But the hero lives here, underneath the bars and numbers. The hero leads us from one concussion to the next, like when a serrated kitchen knife is plunged and withdrawn like an ATM card or a cock or a retreating army across the border at center court in the center of the stadium.
So now the spectators insert their own frustrations and goals into this same spot, this same breach of skin where the blood clogs up. This spot where the rectangular contortion of Ms. Seles's mouth makes a wangangangangangangangangangangang sound wangangangangangangangangangang sound and vision makes for grainy memory but the hero is at work now underneath the bars and numbers so that the knife becomes rusted and bloody with the sickening aspirations of an entire city block where someone even sweeping outside can become whispers to you. Her mouth is a rectangle.