Let me tell you this once
(I will not be able to say it again):
I have lost the meaning of words.
Heavy, they ripped away from the sounds,
fell into cracked ground. For weeks
I scratched but what I dug up was
bicycle spokes, black melon rinds,
a smashed doll face–it was not meaning.
I don’t know what I am saying.

their memory occupies our dreams,
our waking minutes and the
seconds of our deep contemplations.
we are now in the rough tomorrows
of pain, outrage and reordering.

Who has the moral high ground?
Fifteen blocks from the whitehouse
on small corners in northwest, d.c.
boys disguised as me rip each other’s hearts out
with weapons made in china. they fight for territory.