I am the prince of the twice-turned cheek running
out of facial real estate to meet
your list of demands: a dandelion
with teeth biting
soil, sinner and soiled, a hell
razor-sharp and sordid,
your indigo hammer, violet club, blue fox scrambling
to find a bunker that’s not ablaze,
I’ve seen so much
worse than your exodus.
The cast-iron dragon cutting through
the cityscape that’s become a tomb
for the sons of Ra,
I empty myself, and you don’t
understand why the sky is on fire.
You prayed for rivers
of blood, your firstborn
dying, swarms of locusts, another forty
years in the wilderness,
in lieu of me. Ye shall not surely die
the first time around, because at least daggers cut to the point.
Anthrax, android, a mistake
I think, I might be
a misanthrope, restless, self-righteous, but selfless.
Father, lightness is a much heavier load to carry.
No wanderers and no wonders, only the great healer harboring
fugitives from your law
while you dream me.
Spinning the chambers like snake
eyes falling
from your mouth mean
nothing. Matter is abstract
until a nuclear holocaust is on the table.
You were a godhead when I was
godless, but God forbid I be
banished from this promised land.
Adorning, but not
a crown of roses, stop scorning me
like incinerating your world was
a choice. (There is always.)