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.