Monthly Archives: February 2017


She glided in ethereal
A mixture of Memory
(You look like) Wheat
(You sound like) Music
(You smell like) Rose

But Memory never smelled like Rose
Rose smelled like something earlier
Soap amongst steel
Milk and honey in the desert
Sackcloth and ashes
A head shorn of sorrow
Rose smelled like something new
As surely as it smelled like something old

(Your scent is alive)
(You are no ghost)
(You were never never there)


Black Bloc

The night the city burned, I sat on your floor listening like a child as you told me our god must be Janus. A face for authority, for the frightened middle, and another for casting stones, for cleansing the temple. I’ve tried to learn the tenets of this new faith, but I am no Martin Luther, no prophet of peace. When I march, I march in black, a mourning hawk dressed in the fatigues of protest: hood marking me an adherent of the old ways, mask to keep out miasma, gloves so as not to leave a trace of my touch. My creed has only two lines: Fight for those who won’t raise their fists, work towards a world that does not need you.

I’m Not Racist, But

I’ve got a thing against Orange-Americans
Those so-called Golden God Emperors
Creatures of papier-mâché skin and bronzer

And, hey, I’m just saying
There’s something inferior about supremacists
Coiffed cowards lacking in courage
Mannschaften ohne schmisse oder stil

I get a little nervous around brownshirts
All gin rummy red nose, all flabby and pale
I don’t want them legislating in our schools

And I would never advocate violence, but
Seeing them flaunt it in public, I can’t help but think
Hollow man, keep it up and we will find out
If you bleed straw

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