Thoughts from the Nighttime

You parade around us
In Grand processions,
Calling us “Hope.”

But I’ll tell you what we’re really like:

We sneak Castle’s into jars
And burn them in broad daylight.

We hurl bats into composed skylines.

We eat your stomped cigarette buds from the pavement,
And plant pens into your gardens.

We hail taxis, and shove horses into them—
To spite your constant fences.

We ignite your mattress with primitive catastrophes.

We stack those laptops you bought us into racist and fractured cemeteries,


We are the shivers in your shudders,
The fading tattoos on your shoulder

The spikes you impale your checks on.

Figments, and pigments, and fragments.
Resignations.

We unlatch our armor and ship ourselves back into the Middle East, belts filled with your Whimpered prayers.

And, if it pleases you,
We’ll stick a couple of our newspaper clippings onto your fridge.