Kinesophobia
            the fear of not moving

Arrowheads of birds fleeing a burning city, manic,
            now divebombing repeatedly against this flying buttress
of bone, volley after volley, as if looking for a way out
            through my mouth; 206 divining rods jerryrigged together
with wire into a skeleton, pulling in every direction
            away from this drought, would prefer to quarter me
than settle for this drought; bounce voice graveled into rasp,
            followed by a sharp choke then an urgent hand pulling
a bullet from my throat after yet another misfire,
            yet another gutcheck turned gunjam, 3 more of these
and I could fill a bandolier, maybe even start my own
            hipster pop-up shop selling 9mm regret to ruin pornographers
& urban farmers & any other transplant who answered
            the beckon of the body, who call a place outside
their city home and mean it; hostage strapped to a bomb
            with no timer, just an obnoxious knock like an old apartment
radiator and a list of demands left with a beautiful woman
            in Brazil I'm terrified I'll never meet; static float, electric ghost, felt
but never seen, like the totem's spin at the end of Inception,
            or the sex Harper & Jordan never have in that movie
“The Best Man,” unactualized combustion, concentric
            limbo; last second pass to role player with time running out,
pump fake with zero on the shot clock, bright burn
            that does not know its own death or night, reluctant star;
better still—what is it called when you laugh
            twice as loud at things half as funny so you don't call off
the search parties for yourself, and the flare of a strong drink
            fired into the panic of birds is proof of life, a vital sign?
what is it called when you look at your bedroom
            walls and see teeth? when you are shown a flashcard
of a house & your first thought is heavy molar?
            when you're put in front of a full length mirror
and all you can say is gristle?


by Chace Morris

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Chace Morris is a poet/emcee from Detroit. He is a 2013 Kresge Literary Fellow, 2-time Rustbelt Poetry Slam champion & writer-in-residence with the InsideOut Literary Arts Program, with work forthcoming in Freezeray Press. When not writing, Chace consumes copious amounts of black tea, turns as many nouns into verbs as much as humanly possible, and enjoys life as an underappreciated legendary Pokémon. Micwriteyoulisten.com