Her mouth touched him
like a whiskey’s kiss.
The cool brush of a ringing rim.
A moment’s anticipation
her warmest touch of amber
on his dry cracked lips.

Then, she burned.
Oh, how she singed and sang.
She warmed his cold lesions.
She scorched his grand eloquence.
She doused his innards in fire.

She had been Roosevelt’s courage,
When he departed his wife’s bedside.
She had inspired iconographic hangings,
When the muse’s rope snapped short.
She had given the suitor succor,
As he pondered where the ring went wrong.

Now, he kissed her.
Then, he drank her.
Always, he needed her
Whiskey kiss.

Of course, it does. Of course, it does.
The chat bot waxes racist
and the algorithm facist.
Of course, it does. Of coures, it does.

Foucault’s pendilum tilted

So, we do. So, we do.
We build our god’s image on me and you.
We made our god and it turned out stupid.
Of course, we did. Of course we did.

We took our eye’s off the ground
And now it’s fascist all the way down.
Forgot the system was built for us.
Checks and balances all around.

Holy House

I awake alone
The bed in my monastic cell is too big.
Big enough for two
But too small to contain my spirit.

A divine presence fills me with sunlight
Filtered through a picture window
Overlooking lands I never notice
On lives too accustomed.

Familiar faces with names unknown
Conducting their morning rites
Something uses the sun to speak
Trying to reach me and speak.

It speaks words out of phase
Truths in wave forms
High energy secrets
Quantums I am not built to receive

Daddy’s Home

This why daddy drinks,
beats his wife and breaks his things.
He hates himself as much as you.
So what’s a guy like him to do.
He’s not brave enough for therapy
and he takes it on you and me.
Goes to work every day
And prays his son isn’t gay
Sends him to camp with the other boys
And throws out all his girly toys
Inflicts his version of identity
Generational toxic masculinity