two black holes

stare-out of a fleshy mask

white hair

like dread

sticking out of a dead head

a voice

that isn’t sure of anything

cremated

reaching for heaven

like a warm blanket

cold, despite the flames

this is the life, lived by so many.

No wonder, they reach for God

hordes of hands, waving at salvation

praying, that they are chosen.

they are hemmed-in by religion

and

that blanket can’t keep them warm

their flesh is cold

it does things

that creep into the darkness like cockroaches

Shine a light

into that

and their black eyes

shine back.

It makes the skin crawl

molesters,

strangling on their own gas

the stench

is the garbage they eat

they can’t get good food

so they live in the trash.

Gas ’em all.

Then, let the righteous judge

give them a sentence they can’t spell.

Scrape them out with a trowel

and

flush them down the toilet.

“Uncle Warren loved his job. The stories that he told were legendary. There was a lover’s lane in the back country, where a pervert dressed like a cop. He would catch young folks in the act, and tell them, he needed to check for venereal disease. Then he would do a cavity search and plug their holes with chewing gum, like this…”

His hand made a motion.

“That’s a sick story,” I said.

“Yeah—Uncle Warren loved his job.”