The Modern World, Without Warning, After the Death of Max Ernst

small bones in the
shadows of empty houses

sunlight
until all i am is blind

until the shadows have burned themselves
into the sidewalks
and the skin of the children who
play there

and to believe in the word escape
is to believe in the word prison
and so everyone is defined
by what they say or by where they are

anger is replaced by exhaustion

the poem begins to fray at the edges

image follows image follows image
but none of them matter

none of them become anything more
than dislocated parts

not every act of failure
needs to become a reason
to kill
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History, Inverted

and the last thing he says is
i wasn't going to shoot you
and then he dies

and 34 years later
all i want is to be human
or maybe something better

and maybe i'm sick of christ
and of the dogs
who crawl in his shadow

and maybe i've
said this before

have walked away
from the burning girl or
shaken hands with a man who
raped his daughter every day
for three months

small atrocities that won't
change the world and
even if it's not a justification
it's the one i use

and consider the fact that
anything you can hold
can be used as a weapon

think of nails

think of hammers

look at your children and
imagine them grown

without bounds

escaped