November: 17

17.

 

Undulating waves of damage flow across these shores

and songs sing of imagined lovers we will never see no more,

radio show speaks of the mad queer poets who claim

the word “the” is the enemy of poetry.

Colorado propositions to secession, five counties

angry over restrictions to their rights to bear arms;

my arms are bare, no tattoos here,  nor any muscles, or hair,

my chesticles begin to sag with middle age donut flabs,

half a population, sick and dyring,  wanders aimlessly through dirt roads
among scattered cement stones of what used to be their homes,

we pride ourselves on our mutilation, by either needle or the pen,
the bile that flows out of us is that which we inhale again,

there is no consistency in literature, and no security in jazz,
both reveal the shattered glass mirror of these frail, lonely humans,

yet,

who are told,

... you are precious in my eyes ... and I love you.

(Isaiah 43:4)