The Inheritance and I

my dead father
still ages, buried
    in the closet corner
inside the bruised black
             and orange
    of this halloween bag
    one shell rustling
amongst the wing flaps
      of infinity's
      other wrappings

boys are tuned
as empty insects
              eaten
from the inside
               to be
reborn as men
      opportune husks
instruments only
of whatever wind
            storms through
            our hollow reeds
empty, but so full
   of  accidents
        and holes

i sometimes wear
what was once
                me, and see
how i'm hollowed
            by the men
            before me
well before
       my feet hit this earth
       a broken blood
             passed unto me
             pissed into me
by something
with hooks for hands

and when the wind
      of my pitch and key
      breaks, i crawl over
  the flaking orange
  black print of this bag
        and root into it
  the field inside
        is Rage
it's where i dig
                for what to do
     when words fail
            when my veins
            call back to the darkness
     and its hooks, again
     find home