the bleeding horse despairs in the face of all that cannot be changed

this wall of heat until you can no

longer clearly remember the darkest days
                                                of february

the laughter of children and

the hum of air conditioners

trickle of sweat

between your lover’s breasts

and what hope can you have for the future

when your religion is based on blood
and violence, and why would you kiss the
feet of a savior who wears a halo of ashes?

why would kiss the

feet of anyone at all?

listen
 

i am tired of the burning house

i am tired of the weeds

that devour the garden
 

once you move past the idea of

immortality, you begin to see clearly
 

once the last dollar has been spent, you

begin to see the attraction of despair
 

and do you understand why

bukowski’s death doesn’t matter?

do you understand he would have had

nothing but contempt for you?

and this is true of dali also, of course,

and of reagan, and once the villagers have
all been locked inside the church
the priests light the torches

they line up the bulldozers and they

explain that all true gods take sides

they turn politely away

while the women are raped

it’s a sad fucking world when the

only thing we can
think to beg for is forgiveness