3 November 2021
“If it were a dream,
What would it mean to you, this
Odd, engaging, Day
Of the Dead mask, shield
For the already almost
Deceased, painted eyes
On the half-skull, a-
live to being leaving
Earth, a flagrant bone
Arced in triumph at
Boondoggles written into
Contracts, diminished
More identities
In word-shifters, trans-nouns, verbs
It’s stasis in drag
That drags us out of
Our so-called selves, fuschia
Bellies hang over
Like red umbrellas
Over Tibetan bells, girls
Dance in red-stringed hats
Day I will have died
In wool forest, slanted light
Blunted by water
But there is water
Not fire, a politician
Carries her semi-
Automatic gun
Used to run homeless shelter
O say can you see
O non-sequitur
O logical fallacy
The president’s son
Will reincarnate
In the plaza his father
Died on, there was grass
So there was water
So there was fire from the gun
Shot from the warehouse
Books now banned, disturb
The peace imposed, silences
Like silicon boobs
Seen but not heard, big
Like Loa, shield volcano
Achilles’ heel, hell
Limitation is
The art of the deal, if cards
Are your currency
He is the shadow
Behind each shiny object
Welcome Fascist-Lite.”
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