the almost too-euphoric feeling of the apocalypto-nihilist inside all of us
god died at a poetry reading in a small town a year ago
the microphone was either too high or too low
she choked on the never-ending cascade of cigarette smoke
and everyone just stood around with stag in hand waiting for her to die
where the drinks were cheap and there's always a few too many white people
and we know why
my not self's been brewing in a maplewood cabinet under cheesecloth ever since.
or maybe it was 1880-
when the revolution must've been on the brink of revolution somewhere
part of me will always want that final push from the unknown-
making not just lucid thoughts of molotovs
Black is the color of my love for thee
and as providence dangles mid-bodypile, we'll right food for thought not just for symbolism's sake...