wealthy Tribeca—a man’s
screams, seated in a new Benz—laughing like it’s good, giggling in whispers,
life was damn good!
“He must be sick!”
I was a child, I loved
her, so proud to have essence. mind-proof, bulletproof, more armory, bright
like early.
dear mother, the
plot shifts, dying is a miracle, we wish you peace—a damn problem, so cuffed to
bibles, so aloof to bibles.
more fear, more
settees, more ancient furniture; eating Seneca, regurgitating Aristotle, like
mad in his mind for Douglass.
leased my life,
abandoned my courage, so fucking sick; needed her like Jesus, wanted her like
Ghosts, flipped and dirty wrung dry.
entered like a
fledgling, rebaptized, I anxiety with pure aggression. dear Shorty—was it raw,
was it filthy, grinning ear to ear?
father was laxed,
mother made no excuses, it wasn’t an issue.
swinging corner to
block, an Asian fixation, like bring back Africa. so sick over Brown, so
backwards how we function, Much respect to our Vice President.
been sipping like
what happened! family seems accursed.
you might tell me
one day: “I’m dying.” watch the magician go in fully dirty. right at your side,
laughing at miracles, like a new soul!
dear Biden, a
young pistol, riding like Jesus came. Much love!
dear Afghanistan—political
asylum, bold in an uprise—filthy, clean, like children of the Highest.
what? how many
goats? how many sheep? the trade is fervent, the verb is, fighting, the masters
are laid to interior.
