beneath the bull

i sit beneath
the bull skull.
it was a gift
after it was
finished
living. i write
atop a desk of
old barn wood.
how did i end
up
in this place,
every grinning
skull in this
room
seems to ask?

beneath the bull
skull,
it all comes out
bull.

i can only hope
after i die,
my skull or
what’s left
hangs
above at least one
writer,
as the bull runs on.

written on 04/04/2014 by: Matt Kane