this wouldn't be the first time
someone's said that you can't
put a knife through the preacher,
even when he's not practicing what he's preaching.

he's a delicate flower,
he's just facing the sun and
praying for photosynthesis

Preacher's got a sunburn,
he's a silly dude, sittin' in the field
in the blistering heat

bright bidden barley
comes sicken roasted now,
like a frostbitten politician lectures a sandy hook victim,
telling his soft couch he just won't have it anymore.
who's the prophet today, anyway?

black.
all I see — is black,
and a glow -
maybe some tessellated patterns over screenlit skinforms,
writing like they think they know what they're doing
I love what they've done to me
but I hate what I've done for them
I want to curl 'em like I'm squeezing a lemon
I want to weave a web of thunder with my skeleton
Bend me like an antenna to get reception
I'll swing my hips to your
pulse's rumpus

tickle my neurons
with your featherduster delusions

sometimes I stare at screens
because the flow of photons
over my pupils form rivers
over my retinas that sound
a thousand frames per second softer than tears.