I have no expectation of mercy.
This mad clown nation of ours
offers little to most,
an abundance to some small number; 
I am not among those
who expect to receive any at all.

I have no expectation of respect.
This dark and evil horse of a country
thinks of itself as Unicorn, thinks
it ought to be honored as such; 
I am not among those
who can see that mythic horn
without seeing it dripping blood.

I have no expectation of care.
This palefaced vampire of a world
kisses my neck until I begin to shuffle
in death-acceptance of its hard love
and sucking draw-down of my life. 
I am not among those
who believes I deserve a soft landing.

I am not one who believes
in an interventionist God. I believe instead
in a Voyeur In Chief.  I believe instead
that the Curtain of The Greatest Show Ever
is falling upon us all and we can’t do
anything except write new myths about it.
Hope someone reads them someday
and hope a someday happens to someone,
to anyone; I’ve got no hope, really,
for one for myself.

A name lit from within
by a fire, a furnace
of ambition.

A face strong as canvas 
grown stiff in freshened air, 
as amenable 
to tacking
as any other sail. 

Words, honey crust
on the tongue, 
poison or balm
or both — and

the backside
of this sugared speech
carrying all the vermin
such sweetness at once
attracts
and conceals.