Fixed or Broken?

They fixed your brain when you were young
Long before you were born
Sought to bring about the ideal
without your say.
They fixed your brain when you were young
Long after you were born
Reinforced by those around you love
and who love you.

Break it.

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May: A Second Look

The introduction to the introduction to the interlude
But oh, I can’t stand to wait
Let me sit
and ruminate
On what could and could not be
All direction is a misdirection
I’ll forgive the signs that got me here
Because I am here
(Not there)

Movement: a conflagration of confused forward motions
Vulnerability: standing naked before the mirror
constructed by everyone I know and I fear

Anxiety: how fragile it is after all
Hope: how worth it is after all
even if it falls apart, it’s a mess worth making

Life: oh dear.
I’m here.
Although I fear –
You’re here.
We’re here.

Be still.

Silent Violence

Your silence is your violence,
it’s beating in the face of their victims.
You’re no better than the perpetrators,
you and you’re inaction.
Take the time to be still,
if it produces movement.
If piety leads to sacrifice,
call me a heretic
and let me be merciful.

In Hell

The first place to look for Christ is in Hell.
Beaten, battered, torn apart.
Spit in his face,
vinegar smeared on his lips.
Four nails hammered in flesh,
supported by the pain.
Wrapped in darkness,
bathed in violence.
Worshiped in blood,
acquainted with sorrow.
Tired, hungry, forsaken.
This is love:
God in need.
The first place to look for Christ is in Hell.

Divine Excretions

The Lord of Lords, the King of Kings
squatting down to take a shit.
Constipated for many days,
the hole is now a full pit.

Defecation as a divine
demarcation. This is our
God? Our Messiah? Crucify!
And at once the people cried:

“What blasphemous waste is this,
that God should have to take a piss?”

Who Will Save me From This Body That Is Subject To Death?

Sonorous nonsense driven home with gestures
which bifurcate the conferential notion of reality.
Demarcating experience into a disingenuous echo of truth –
where is the line?
Do we draw it ourselves?

Everything I know,
and everything I hold dear
is a self-induced narcotic
that structures my life
into a complex that helps me to sleep at night.
(Except not really.)

I am not a son.
I am not a student.
I am not an employee.
I am not culture –

I am not a structured existential coping methodology.

I am not you –
I am not me.
I am
a being which is destined for death.

What else is there?