Our lives are a Jenga masterpiece,
a collage of self-interpreted
debauchery that we have been
told is the work of R.F.

Is it necessary to destroy ourselves
for the things that we desire?

Why do I have to be symbolic
of an Irish dome of the rock?
     (have you ever touched the rock?)
     (has anyone?)

I am tarot prophetic in my
loathing of our distorted level.

I am chronic mime gestures
on the West Banks of the Jordan.

We are rouge lipstick
smeared across blue collars
and twisted pretzels lounging
citrus grove clean and sad.

I am just a man.
We are just people.
The buildings are just Lego's we have
crushed and spent combating azure tides
to stand ourselves straight against that
last wall...
but I love you still,
despite.