Poetry

Fire as a Warning

Lately,
a lot of my ideas
bubble up before a shower,
“It must be the proximity
to water, everything flowing,”
that’s the story I’m going with,
anyway.

I love a crusade,
when it’s set against
faded and jaded
and so-called
“leaders,”
old-fashioned ideals
that don’t match the meter
of the people,
so we move to burn
those steeples,
and rejoice in
their drifting ashes.

I think about
the folks who went too soon:
Kurt at 27, killed by sadness
(I know he killed himself);
Jimi at 27, killed by bad luck
(he may have killed himself);
Robert at 27, killed by jealousy
(most likely poison);
Janis at 27, killed by pain
(the overdose a side-effect);
Jesus at 33, killed by empire
(the killer is always empire).
Their memories,
the kindling
for the lanterns
that border the edges
of the darkest woods.

Dark smoke is rising from the cities we built,
the machinery
we crank under threat.
Those leaders,
the faded and wrinkled
soul-eaters,
they daily set fire
to the people
who bleed money for them.
Then the old men
blame degradation
on anyone but themselves.

This tired church needs to go,
we need
a crusade.

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Poetry

Billionaires for Dessert

When I understood
that the onus is
mostly on me
to keep myself
alive and, Christ,
to give a shit about me,
that we’re all convinced
and, admit it, coerced
not to care beyond ourselves,
that every month, after I pay rent,
I calculate how I’ll pay
for the next ten days
before my check goes through –
I realized
this shit is all
carefully calculated
and crafted,
designed to keep me
too tired to find
and punch
every single billionaire.

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