& can you blame me, 

really? I have scorpions 

under my tongue & rottweilers 

for eyes; nothing surprises 

me anymore — For every ounce 

of rubble manufactured 

by our missiles, an American 

angel is getting its wings; we name schools 

for dead white men & rivers 

for their victims — There HAS 

to be a crystal for this. In times 

of stress, the caterpillar 

dies in its transition — half moth, 

half broth; all of this 

for nothing. At the end 

of the world, I start 

throwing stones; something 

is skipping them 

back.