Controversial

 

I’m busy writing manifestos

for civil wars I hope will never burn the streets.

I’m mapping futures made of knives.

I'm spreading unlikely theories of courtesy.

I’m ill with history.

The latest thing in litter

is temporary faces, 

and tomorrow's poison, 

in the newsfeed I'm hooked up to, 

waits to drip.

There’s no way to my heart’s church from here,

no access to the sky.

I can't write reason or read joy

with all these arguments to win,

these falsehoods to outface,

this outrage to consume.

It's time to snip the zip ties,

slip outside,

remember the moon.

Thank God, the dog knows nothing.

September 2 2020