… my things.
By J. K. McDowell.
July 2017
Ancient declarations are still relevant.
Tyranny finds the words of Adams, Franklin and
Jefferson less that a delight. Some know such things.
I am not carrion. My sky burial is a
Welcome event for the winged demons to
Sweep down and pick away at the tender things.
What die roll will save us? The campaign seems at an end.
I am trapped at the crux of the matter.
I scream her name: “Eleven” and wait for stranger things.
We flip upside down and foreclose on flim-flam-ville.
A billion-dollar valuation in the cypher
Of a drop of blood. Extinction brings new things.
The desert sand, cold like snow with no wetness.
A cloud ruined sunrise. Other blessings, no witness.
And the just retaking of Mosul – atrocities are not things.
Of course! Despite the remains, the moustache perfect.
Do not carry around last month’s poem and
Please, oh please, James, stop touching my things.