Self-promotion arena supplying for
social gatherings and family space,
at times useful mirror and judge onto the lives
of the untrue, the corrupted, the vicious,
at most theatre for public sacrifice by the rule of the thumb
with mercy at the hands of the pleb.

Samnites, secutores and retiarii fighting to the death,
noxii and damnati hacked in the man-made
monument built for entertainment,
barbarian combats in the name of munus,
lethal games on the tilt of a double-edged sword
serving political agendas and commercial must,
their successes encouraging others.

Youths sold, batches addicted
to the screen of civilization
erected to conceal and divert the eye,
to the glittering murderous show
permeating the four cardinal directions while
confusing children's moral compass,
morphed into unactive witnesses,
blood-thirsty enablers, wishful executioners,
as loved ones helplessly watch
the self-destructions, the stabbing cuts,
and hear the roars of beasts feeding,
the shouts of be-headings acclaimed.

The damage is complete.
This is a lie.
This is a ghost.

What if I don't want
to get better? This hunger is the only thing
I feel anymore. You abandoned me,
so I sit on the bathroom
floor. I drown out my tears
with lyrics to songs we used
to scream out the car
window. While others congratulate
the damage this hunger has caused,
I obsess over the numbers that
light up whenever I step on
the scale. This is the only thing
I can control anymore. Since
you left.

I feel her stir and stroke her hand.
My plan is to sedate her, gently bait her to sleep,
Just a while longer, to somewhere deep,
Where she can keep to her dreams and in those dreams recede.

The seams of this island
Are too fragile for her agile hands.
When she wakes, she shakes mountains,
And tangles the sky by the locks of her hair.
And sighs of rain—alert, at her thunderous applause—
May as well be daggers for the damage they cause.
We’d barely survived her, so I now lay beside her.
I wrap her in lullabies, so life may thrive despite her.

I feel her stir, and stroke her hand.
There was only ever this feeble plan.
The seas are calm; it’s barely dawn.
I hold my breath and she slumbers on.

she's a growing sunflower
what will you bring?
fire or water

Such a small word
Yet said right
Does the most damage