spit-shines the savior's feet.
we don't think. we just have thoughts.
& we don't pray. we barter
in prayers. the gunman looks exactly like
he's supposed to. is trying to show us
something about ease. about men
& stories. their vantage point. blank
ones in the skulls of the appointed. no
fixed or moot or fair. a point like a peak.
elevated to the status of execution. the man
upstairs, the one who makes rain, is wringing
a dishtowel over the nation
& calling it absolute.
who were you expecting
to liberate you?
under the new regime, our monarch
wears a Big Bird mask & flips
us the bird. says:
you're either the burger or the burger-flipper,
& either way you're asking too much.
this field has never been a nest.
under the new regime, they made
an ordinance against butterfly
gardens. they found Jesus
in a sonogram. bearded & poised
before a miniature baby grand
what could a gunman
at a window with no gun do?
under the new regime, no one
spits into their handshakes
& scrubs their spit into shine.
we drink liberation gin straight
from the mouth of the 750.
we take turns playing king
of the mountain or cops &
robbers or kill the man
with the ball. in the hymn, was it
the savior who turns & kneels
& washes the blood
from off the hands of his betrayers?
or was it the blood of the lamb above
the door like both hands held up
against the hood of a car or
the wet concrete or the
backward-facing sky
—so soon to turn
its blindness into ours—
today is one of the warmest
condolences in the history
of the insincere. wherever it is
you sent your thoughts away to
I'm asking you to meet me there
—alone or otherwise. leave
what you said while your palms were
playing patty-cake at your savior's feet
at your savior's feet. we break you
like bread & return to our gardens.
either everything is senseless
or nothing is.
