i'll raise an electric fence around
the gods up there
in mountains and ivory towers
and they'll all wear shock collars
too

i'll spread peanut butter on bread
and send it to them through
the mail

i'll write them letters from the
lower world saying that 'time
really isn't a bother anymore
because apples rot in home
baked pies down here'

i'll reach through my own
tainted build up of corrosive
discharge and pull a petal
from the flower of life
to eat in front of
them with a coffee toothed smile

i'll throw weeds over
palisades into
groomed gardens

i'll **** on the flaming sword
spinning like i do
outside
heavenly gates

i'll put AA batteries on
my ******* and force
feed the north star
until it bursts

i'll stain the glass in windows
extolling failures and shining
blunders under vaulted
ceilings

i'll be nothing less than
the imperfect son of
an imperfect man and
an imperfect
woman--

human
all too human
after all

Wildflower, you
Were no fresh spring rose, scented
Instead, a dry ****

A tree stares in disbelief at
an axe with an unsharpened edge
Unsure if its fate is to be beaten rather than
chopped to death
before giving birth to tables and chairs
A pavement recoils in disgust
that weeds and not roses sprout from its crevices
Indignant at the unfairness of it all
Even the pictures painted
by words scrawled on anguished walls
seem to have something to say
While I’m lost in thought
on a park bench
trying to make sense
of masked
lockdown/murdering/rioting days