trains and poetryinstigate nature’s fury

rancor and venom


we kiss each other’s

ass on the days that poets

fall hard to define


I wonder where I

fall emotionally ‘tween

Jesus and the Hulk


welcome him to the 

open sky the tower of

his song ascending


being far sighted

on the near side doesn’t make

you 20/20


Crippled Run

Crippled Run
Can we not use the word

revolution anymore

until we mean it? Until we have

the balls to get back

into the game.
Your revolution. My revolution.

Fuck them both. His coup.

Her foment. Fuck you.

You know it’s a crippled run.

A lie.
A sight gag of mass proportion.

Kids. Colors. Placards aloft

w/dishonored words. Odious policies

and protocols. Handbills and banners of

bullshit bullshit bullshit.
My clan. Your cabal.

I’d shit on them both

if my guts weren’t knotted.

Light them on fire

w/their nestlings huddled.
I’d hope for a new day 

but wrote its headline:

The dead coronation

now begins.