ice caps (20170511)

what if a genie offered
you a wish
something it swears
it wouldn’t fuck up for you
even though you know all genies
{except for barbara eden}
hate mankind

what if it offered an end
to hungry and climate change
and all it meant was that
every single human being would
have enough food
but it would the blandest food ever

no going back and no supplementing
no more steaks
no more sundaes
no more s’mores
or apples
or peaches
or ice cream
or butter and cheese

just gray, tasteless crackers
that practically dissolved
on your tongue
too fast to get a sense
of whether they taste bad
or in fact never tasted at all

fat third world children
no sustenance farmers
not one single animal getting the axe
to feed a human being
ever again

all you have to do is say yes
the little gray communion wafer
the genie is offering you

you get to decide
the genie says
no tricks
no twisty loopholes
no soylent green
waiting in the wings

a reformed genie
as affable as robin williams
and eager to save the human race
from starvation
and melting ice caps

matryoshka (20170507)

this hollowness aches
a matryoshka missing
its final babushka
a cold shadow
without enough room
to allow even an echo
but all too empty
the walls too far apart
the smell of wood
the odor of red paint

x marks the spot
where the heart is buried
but the map is now lost at sea
and no one searches
either on the sea
or in the woods
no one willing to dig
no one willing to open
that last casket

slaughter complicit (20170504)

we rail against the butchers
complain about their blood-soaked
aprons and their knives
designed and dedicated to slicing
muscle from bone

we point our fingers as
they lead the food beasts
lowing and weeping through
dark alleys into the
sulfurous light
of the slaughterhouse

we rail
we point
we sit at our well-appointed tables
and fill our mouths with meat
gravy runs down our chins
gravy is just another word
for blood
we rail
we point
we complain as the butchers
press their thumbs upon the scales
and tip gold in their favor
we rail
we point
we pay extra for the fatty parts
and pray extra that we are not lead
lowing and weeping though
dark alleys into the
sulfurous light
of the slaughterhouse
we rail
we point
we sharpen the knives

in chains (20170503)

everything is ashes in my mouth
they taste like graveyard dirt
rife with greasy sins
of the dead
and those waiting to be reborn
eager to work off karmic burdens
the universe will not last
as long as their labors

long ponderous chains
manacle my hands and
hobble my ankles

i smell the smoke of regret
and envy
and it is my own flesh
that burns
filling my nostrils