Poem: Nothing

Vanity is the exile of the weirdo, breathing is for the damned,

screaming from the bottom of our souls is a desperate voice

we can’t hear, it says “help,” or it says “torture,” or it says the names of virtuous gods

we’ll never know, so crack a can, take a hit, and tomorrow will come

sooner than you thought it would.  This is a lesson

from the great god of nothing, as it rules everything having no eyes,

no hands, no voice, no identity

other than that it is not not, all else bursting

from within will bring a cataclysm.  So pray to this genderless mass

by going home, or stay out, and kill yourself, or build a church

with an orgy chamber in the basement, where the priests wear nothing

save gloves of two different colors, red and gold or blue and green

because the god of nothing knows it doesn’t matter, or maybe it does.

Poem: Nothing

Poem: The Third Debate

In my throat, ashes and bile

watching this shit on the networks

internet forums and Facebook, I assume

exiting this cycle will feel as fire

from within, a chemical burn

seeming like our own fault, we all earned and asked for

this partisan shitstorm, bullshit spilling

communally into a great bowl.

Poem: The Third Debate

Poem: Big Shot

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.

Poem: Big Shot