Piece of My Heart

Piece of my Heart 


Ms. Joplin,
your rips apart 
my face, my tie ― the mark 
of all hanged men.

My remains roll on the ground
and the edge of your voice
blows my Monday into pieces.

I have the hunger of the employee 
staring with contempt at the image 
of his face in the glass door.

My hunger, a factory of anxieties,
the certainties, is convinced
that nothing will improve,
that this flagship raised during youth
will also sink. My last refuge 
will have to be the skin 
or the solitary bottle of whisky.

Janis, your voice is a knife
vibrating in the throat of pain.

But now
silence.

I have come to the place where 
little masters live
and I hurry to annihilate the desire 
of damning all to hell.