poor mother (a poem)

Thursday, March 27, 2025

The enormity of my ignorance—
when that shit is real.
You woke up too much, bro.
The flash—
and my guts spill.

How can you talk like that?
Your poor mother.

Unfortunate souls,
events, pseudo-filtered,
triples—mass produced,
shipped all around the world.

Our whirlpool.
Our economics.
Our gain
taps the greed of the world.

Stop spiraling.
We got this, babe.
We have to take responsibility
for this.

This here.
This narrow aisle
of cereal decisions,
aisles of false provision,
aisles of indecision,
aisles of sugar-coded dreams,
aisles of nowhere to run,
while the world burns
and goes to hell—

a mind,
studio-staged
with fire.

And I have front row seats,
and my legs don’t work no more.