Poetry

Reincarnations

My gods Look at me Like gelded phantoms From the ruins of their tombs As I supplicate to foreign gods And they serve me well Maybe better My deities toss and turn Trying to catch my attention Managing momentary accessibility In my
April 6, 2024
Lake Nyanza

princes of filament wings

Under the red mound built in spittle of gang workers without pension The last surviving termite mound stood on my door, The colony almost collapsing, from the poison I poured into the subterranean empire, like a farmer We will make it for
January 29, 2026

Killing a god

They will come to you Son When the world Is at a precipice They will be desperate And you, Clueless Keep this wisdom That history grants you That when money’s power is at a zenith Tyrannical And they are unable to control
April 6, 2024