Poetry & Democracy


I was born into law
like law remade
A tapestry of pen strokes quietly unraveling
A man asks me to please
forget myself and bend
into the bathroom the way
he does he wants me
naked in his home in his closet
his attic his den
In the mirror
I sing to my hair I beg it to grow
I wrap it around my knuckles
A man unbuckles his belt
I await my instructions on live television
A man is his own definition of freedom
A man weeps into the camera
America laps at his chin

A man
doesn't know
what to ask of a feeling
wasn't taught
to swim
Water flows
from the source to my
shoulders to my
cock to the floor
I push the polished stones around
with a dainty foot
blend with sea
I swirl the goblet taste the air
I sit poised on my throne
with two swords crossed
before my chest waiting
poison at the ready

More Poetry & Democracy

Poetics of a Post-Fact Nation

In America, a thing we like to tell ourselves of late is that we're living in a post-fact world. Between a President with an antagonistic relationship to reality, foreign operatives trolling our social media, and an ever-multiplying crop of suspect news sites, facts seem to keep falling through the cracks.

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apocalipsis / apocalypse

cierta discusión sobre el fin del mundo y el ahora,
siendo cual sea nuestro modo de defender
a los que no estamos en los trenes
para morir con el pie que aguanta el bulto,
presagiando que las yerbas
se enredarán sobre las tumbas de nuestros hijos.

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