watch

‘do you like dead children,’ my little ward asked me.

my mouth was already agape from the idea of filling

6 hours of ADHD mournful childhood with gitmo

lessons in arithmetic and spelling, yes you and me

and the slate desk in a corner under the fucking lights.

death is something you own, he knows it, cause he

doesn’t own a thing that isn’t broken or too old to be

satisfying to his hungry mind. that’s the idea that

cooked for months and exploded out in a hypothetical

poem that spring day as the dark cloud creeped like

a growing spill.

‘i do like dead little children,’ I reflexively said, and

it’s true. I wouldn’t last a half hour in this business

with the rich kids with hoodies with their names on

the back like they were soldiers in this war we were

supposed to oppose. ‘i do.’

from beneath that growing dark spill of a sky, he nodded

and disappeared off into the play structure. i noted the time

of this admission for his growing behavior tracking which

read more like a Poe poem. at least he's published.

we can put a duche in an SUV,

an asshole on the moon

but when that’s done

we watch the babies die too soon.