the deluge

can’t spend yr whole life being the
bleeding horse abandoned on
some ice floe off the coast of patagonia

can’t be an eight year-old child
shot in the face by yr father’s dealer, but
you can’t have yr own palace, either

let the myth of christ be yr gospel

teach yr sons the importance of judas,
                                               of pilate,
of crows gathered on wires waiting for the
animal below to die
and tell all the bloodstained priests that you
already have a roomful of miracles

tell them you already have a roomful of
teenage girls looking to get fucked,
                                             fucked up,
                                             fucked over,
and none of us can spend our whole
lives crying about injustice

we can’t save lorca or neruda

can’t convince gorky that faith has weight,
that the idea of god serves a purpose,
cuz he’s moved past all that bullshit now

ties the noose and takes that
one little step and
to hell with the future

to hell with possibility

every corpse on fire is just
one less hole to dig