Orange Pig and Poetic Justice

We watch the embers of a moribund

empire slowly orbit a

unfitting sham crown.

Poetic justice: fireballs

engulfing the entire earth underneath

the authoritarian's swollen feet. The

scarlet-headed minions

have clenched teeth and truth can't

make it passed their thick plaque. Stagnant in between

my heart and my tongue, a message: cease to exist.

"Drop dead." Those are the orders they

gave our children, our mothers, our lifelines,

our neighbors

as they set the table. I gather the entrees

and scathingly shove

them down their dry and swollen throats

in hopes of replacing their greed with gluttony or

at the very least, occupying their wapping mouths

long enough to bask in the seldom silence.

Utopia

is a funeral home

for Mother Columbia where the pews are filled with

bleeding female bodies

for them. For me? a land-

scape with acronymic eye sores at half mast in observance

of the downfall

of this deranged regime.

Oh, to be a gun

to be an unforgiving and unyielding

disease walking through the Entrance Hall. To be

a determined and concentrated lightning bolt

and strike the marked spot on the white

plains. As white as a powdered wig.

As fat as an orange pig

squealing for the long-tongued herded sheep.

At night, they both shed

their skins and returns them to the Neo-Nazis.

Where the heart should be, we find ICE

inundating their intravenous highways that all lead back

to barren colonies. That's why

they want our warm, fluorescent blood – to know how it feels

to be inextricable with the land

to glisten in the sun's warmth

to stretch over murky waters

to be rooted in absolute beauty.

And not have the eyes glued together

by clunky bronzer.