miro's gun

minotaur at the water’s edge,

end of winter,  a
direct hit

the days all laid out in

delicate tangled webs of
silence & despair and
fear is a weapon, yes,
but not yours

the hands can be broken,

the heart pulled out

the children can be

made to sing

show them their

mother on fire

let them see the

humor in human misery

all of these fuckers who will

tell you that they’re not
monsters, and what they all
have in common is that
they’re monsters

all of these gods

demanding your obedience

your money

you call it politics or

you call it religion and
                      either way
                        you bleed