birthday song, for dorothea

with dreams of metal towers

and of static, dreams of silver skies

and then waking up
 

the here and now is a fist

and so the future can only be

whatever pain comes next
 

i have no other truths
 

have only one hand that holds and

the other that pushes away

 

have only scar tissue and

empty ideals and with the music

up loud enough the sun

makes no sound at all

the baby sleeps beneath

the shadows of passing clouds

 

wakes up crying softly

just as the air runs out

violence

chasing headlights down december

back roads, not yet 6:30 and
already full dark

half-moon and sleeping houses

this man with

a mouthful of poison

wants to show you how easy it is to

hurt you
then wants you to beg for more

absolute zero when the knife goes in

small wooden cross on the

living room wall
 

cop pulls the trigger and

the child is dead and how far do you
have to look to find someone
laughing?

for how much longer will we

allow ourselves to
be a nation of assholes?

been a long

fucking time already

NEW COLLECTION FROM LUMMOX PRESS