pinch enough
of your boss’s stash
to set yourself up as 
someone’s boss just so you

can guard against
a similar pinch
off your own meager hoard
while lying sweat-heavy in bed

worrying about
thieves like you.
you are that well-owned.
you have imprinted

strongly upon
the wings and claws
of those birds of prey
who tear you up only

to fan your open wounds
with their dirty feathers.
it feels like they care enough
to soothe the pain they caused.

it feels like rogue parenting.
a warm snuggly
smallpox blanket.
a red white and blue 

cartoon hero’s cape
stuffed into your mouth and nose
until you can’t breathe
from under all that love.

you’d better find someone
and do it to them quick because
the only way to get ahead here
is to step on one.

They’re tilting,
tipping over because
one half of every one of them
is horror.
They’re lopsided
from carrying it.  

Immaculate beings
in split levels,
or lean and dirty ghosts
in a tent under cold stars; why wonder
if it’s nature or nurture driving them?  

What’s driving them
is nurture playing
in the snowfields
of nature’s mountains.
What’s driving them
is nature slipping a hand
into nurture’s back pocket
as they walk side by side.

Only one half of each is horror.
The other half is frozen joy. 

They look for thaw.
Limp toward clues to it. Call out:

Is there something to warm it with
on sale here?

What price the fire this time?

May there be credit
at terms easier
than what we know
we could be forced to sign.

May we straighten up.

May no one
laugh or shoot at us 
on our way
to straightened up.

New poem.

The symptoms
of exsanguination
colloquially known as “bleeding out”
include

anxiety
blue lips and fingernails

unofficially sanctioned neighborhood demarcations
flimsy justifications of hair trigger rage

low or no urine output
profuse sweating

a profound distrust of received wisdom
easy to believe conspiracies and backroom handshakes

shallow breathing
dizziness

imprisonment
educational poverty

confusion
chest pain

the elevation of cultural assimilation
to sacramental status

loss of consciousness
low blood pressure

carnival barkers on the news
a camera on every corner

rapid heart rate
weak pulse

death upon death
upon no longer unexpected death

the echoes
of centuries of trickle and drip

turning into a flood
of names to remember

a cloven nation
drenched in blood
that should never have seen
the light of day

New Poem.

Set your pen upon
the following points
and draw lines

connecting dusty walls
to corners full of hair from long-dead pets

Draw a line from high-piled tables
to near-empty pantry shelves
and sparsely populated refrigerator

From bills in a heap
to nothing in the bank
with small hope of ever having more than that
from week to week

Draw those lines and
you’ll end up with a map
of seeming disintegration

that will somehow
never touch upon
how the people
who live in this territory
manage to smile
care for their children
imagine joy
and build toward a future
situated somewhere within
these borders