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He relaxes

He relaxes now in the rubble,
afraid of the cold and rain—Once,
he went all in for love and was hurt

A guy walks between two cars who open
fire on one another—Wrong place and
time, bad luck and he’s shot in the head

“How does anything happen except
spontaneously, by force, from nothing?”
When young he reaches for the sun

Passionate commitments expose us
She often pretends to be ill
“Life’s water, heat and impacts”

The sight of her is like a small
wound that he can’t stop picking at,
so shameful, itching and ignorant

Our union will always prioritize money
over morality, profits above principles,
in a curse of insuperable power

In the afternoon he spots a hole in one
of his socks, right at the left big toe with
its coarse somewhat overgrown nail

“It’s not what I believed
It’s what I thought I should say
Freedom isn’t just wants”

John Quincy Adams, when a congressman,
called a righteous southern gentleman “A
beef-witted blunder-head, drunk on slavery”  

“Why should we have to care about what
some fucktard from Kentucky thinks?”
His love for her was genuine

He had a commanding presence
that drew them to him, that wicked,
malign, dogged, strife-torn grifter

as if to say “It’s me, it’s
in-authentically me” like a country
united in the blood of its slaves

In all of us is some serious sadness, some
sad past wound, violent, conceited and unfair
“With a bit more bad luck we could

have become a nest of little republics spitting
and snarling, spattering from their dirty stills, all
against all, from first sunlight into darkness”


-October 31, 2020-