the voices of impaled promises is our Sonnet


These walls.

They sequester us

with the devil’s eulogy

This city.

It is not

for the faint of heart


These ashes.

They will scatter

o’er the horizon


These words.

They compress wishful thinking

Into midsummer fables



*Where was I?


These workers

They toil in the heat

of the scourging sun


the streets

are adorned

with garbage



The sound

of wailing children

is our lullaby


We salvage what we can

like we have been taught



millions have been owed

since the moment

we were born


we give our lives

for the futility of togetherness

how paradoxical.


who can rescue our lost soul?

the answer

also paradoxical.


These streets are loitered

with decaying bodies.

Yours and mine.


listen to me,

they say

“I am not the voice of reason


Allow me deceive you

Give me control

all of you.


Give me the power I yearn for

Your happiness

under my command



You weren’t using it anyhow


Let the sound of cymbals

echo in the market square



Just like old times,

when you were at  the barber shop


when you grooved to Fleetwood mac on the radio.



like when you wanted to be Maya Angelou.

A harvest of fear

entwined with survival


Except now I own you

Your mind

is my property



Go ahead, feed me more.