A poem of mine that should have won, but they marginalized the whole contest

Friction

by Sheri Grutz

I make the electricity go off at work,
the street lights, the blown lamp.
I make the electric eel love my hand

and eat from it like a wet dog. The
day is charged with burning desire.
I make them turn on easy with my

smooth hands, breasts, ass. The
way we see around here is starting
to shrink down into melted crayons,

this sky with clumps of clouds. I
make the hammer come off my head
like a heaviness of sleep, each pounding

in the center putting walls up that
won’t speak. There’s a light in the
faces that you can read by and tell

what they are thinking. Some thoughts
are questioning everything with their
silence hanging on that hook. I make

them never find out about my power
surge that over loads the mother board
with plugged in veins. I make them

never find the answers that the body
contains like shiny diamonds in a
closed fist.