Your pride
comes from
your nationalism,
your patriotism,
rage and dissatisfaction.
You pass each moment
stewing, colluding
with each new oppressor  
in the name of solidarity

Spewing slogans and
other simple statements
oaths and weak ideas
you build a fascist nation
and wonder how you ever got here.

My gods are small.
They exist in the space between the lips
Of two souls.
They nourish off the smiles,
Smiling thoughts,
Smiling though times are sandpaper.
My gods are sadness as beauty.
My gods do not ask,
Do not speak.
Do not merely excist as gods
Rather morals,
Rather miracles.
Rather potential that nests between the eyelashes of a child.
Rather existing as we do.
My gods are not really gods,
But lakes that hide behind your lids
When you cannot stand to look to the sea.
My gods are small.
My gods
Are never quite large enough
For another's world.
But always small enough to be seen when other gods are not.