TRUTH Vigilante: Ew, Icky. How Gross?

Listening Without Ears

Vibrations tremor dirt
shake the boards beneath
my green, putrid cot.
Still smell the flesh rot.

Gun hardens a pillow,
taken apart, reassembled
so many times in sleep
I innocently slaughter your sheep

My ears can’t hear
No faces, so tongues must be cut
from wild, arrogant head
Taste my hot lead?

Ground pounded by your rhinos
gorging a forest poorly made,
bright trees, red hearts
thrash, bleed, each tear apart.

Stomp harder. I can’t hear
actions without words
demonstrative, well demonstrated,
but doesn’t explain why you hate.

Your lonely prisoner/expatriate
lives better in silence…paradise?
Trample all you boast.
You can’t kill, again, a ghost.

He’s dead. Here I lay.
Justice is the bed I made.
Suffrage is yours, perpetual,
in hand made hell.

Careful of the dead
without ears for torture.
Immobilized, they can see.
Unresponsive they’ll be.

Reassembled killing machine
grows taller than the he(a)rd,
a voice now undisturbed,
a cur you couldn’t curb.

What’s the lesson in war?
There’s only casualties,
flesh pile gathering fleas
had no remorse for pleas.

Deaf to notion of treaties,
your sickness, now, your dis-ease.


4.13.23



Blueprint a dystopian book, worshipping devils and their currencies,
we empathize with your disease. You won’t feel shrapnel
from close range. Quick and sweet with ease, he slips through
darkest night, mercenary into your camps. Horns,
the hollow husks in dust that masked their souls.

R.I.P. bkeithc, rest now