January heatwave,
blessed flames bring
suffocating heat.
June monsoons,
sacred rains fill
flooding streets.
Hubris alone
is responsible for explaining
these altered winds.
King waves claim
children who never had time
to learn how to swim.
On the shoreline
shells dissolve
leaving in their wake
bits of plastic and polyester.
Oh Mother Earth,
why did you take birdsong from us?
Is the enemy always
over the next hill
and never within us?
Oh, Patrons of electric bikes
and oat milk,
deliver us from evil
and grant us sainthood
with a metal straw!
To be good is to be fucked.
To be alive is to live
knowing each breath
bought comes at
the price of another’s lungs.
Millennia pass of blowing up
mountains but still
the demolition crew
stalls breaking foundation
for another world.
Oh, green capital!
Oh, colonial czars!
Make us into history.
Kill the colors of spring
and of autumn,
spray down fireproof snow
so we may make angels
under the peaceful rumble
of warplanes.
Convince us we can live forever
as we self-soothe
through the end,
touching soft things,
transfixed.
Forms of Love 