every day

every day

is the worst

can that be true?

but seems to be

and feels like, those are inaccurate too

between hyperbole,

that cold, fascist height,

and the hot, sticky swamp

of mixed subjectivities,

there stretches a plain,

temperate and accessible to all,

upon which we grow toward

one another’s estates

our ill-tended, native vegegation crops,

the site where we absentee landlords

engage in proprietary dialogue

via cross-pollinating proxies

I’m torching fields

and freezing seeds,

to my right and to my left,

as I stride across the plain

to finally put into my mouth

the words that are rightfully mine