The king used to be a big shot

back in the days of protestants and shady deals, he was a perfect piñata,

a pincushion political prisoner, raised on a pike

in the village square for all to see, fretting out the frustration

sickness of the whole world, like Jesus laying

under a boulder,

flat like a pancake so no one could even hear

the WORD, and we don’t even know

what it would be.

Kings are of the past, though

everyone knows that the human

strives for servitude, he or she yearns for the open

air out loud, but staring at it is crippling

chaos twofold, or three or four, we can’t keep

count of our allies and enemies, breeding like mice

poison the well water with feces, take it all down

to the ground maggot paste,

listening to political jabber jaw radios has taught me capital letters

are POINTLESS, and the only time

is right here now.