festering

anger
pure, righteous, cleansing
creates distance between
right/wrong/good/evil
(such useful things, dichotomies)
sorrow
putrid, passive, helpless
carves me out, all my
swarming innards
sorrow and anger together scrape out
the mallow
I dry in the sun, a husk, partly relieved
a child who has wretched out the poison.
oh humanity, I sometimes say
why destroy, maim, torture, ruin
piss on the seeds of creation
stamp out your own potential?
But there is no why, no because,
no humanity
just husks in the sun
some are we
some are them
and we could never become like them.
we, we are pure
and festering in holy anger.

the curious wreckage

to find the rhythms of a breath
the tumbled ocean of a thought
the windy wayward wiles of a word
we tread that muddy field
that borders the sweet void
and barricades us
from meaning
we build our own mythology
to learn the texture of a fault
the blazing penury of want
the brackish thorn of discontent
we speak the olden curses
and spill three drops of wine
to know the ending of a dream
--to find the rhythms of a breath
amidst the curious wreckage
of a soul