Monday, November 28, 2016


Sometimes, my gift is just
the stark purity of reassurance—that no, 
you're not alone;

that yes, it's okay—that all of those ways
you suppose you've invented
to torment yourself

are actually shared, are culturally
predestined. That, in fact, all of the omnipotent 
possessors who came before you 

have clutched the very same 
small world in their hands 
and offhandedly declared,

oh well, to hell with any such 
hard-earned and 
terminal serenity—

before bathing their dominion
in the antiseptic chaos 
of another controlled calamity.