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Tight pockets like sheathes for my weapon,
drunk in an inken daze born of Bonapartean
militarism against tree-exhausting utilities,
bound between dead cows by modern sinew,

bumbling through streets whose signs
carry names and populations illegible
to individuals who lack prior knowledge
of their surroundings.

A transient in post-arctic lands
where an inbred capitalist mentality
draws on the inherent greed of its

My sunglasses, like drunken goggles,
flatten concrete jungles to streams,
rife with wildlife, searching for
a God-given purpose.

Literature is a sweet escape
from dominant liturgy
bred by working class folk
with money enough to suppress imagination.

What respite can be found in
distant memories, recollections of
misguided beliefs inherited from elders
inherited from past ages of ignorance;

Who built golden arches in admiration of an etherial God, like worship
by sun-browned ancients of their almighty orb
that made the world a tanning bed.

I travelled to…

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