Capacity

India:
A witch head in each of their arms,
the morning’s meal still churning happily
in the acid soup of their stomachs,
their pride marches them to the authorities –
but they leave their machetes at home.

West:
A silver fork in each of their hands,
the evening’s meal still churning happily
in the dull soup of their stomachs,
apathy clicks the remote -
let the authorities worry about it.

Rwanda:
A white case in each of their arms,
the morning’s meal pink on the chocolate earth
where brown bones of bodies writhed,
their shock takes them to the authorities -
but they were busy selling machetes.

Cherub

With each soft creak from the pen we human ants breathe ever more closely to gods - how we worship ourselves by building monuments to nothing – how we anger ourselves to learn and love the meaningless meaning of the world – how like gods we tinker and tamper – how like ants we structure and order

as if the universe is an experiment of words that will never fall apart.