sometimes I can bite my tongue, sometimes not.

we, like our fathers, are forgetting
all the things we learned before we
were born to our mothers.

there is no such thing as karma
starting now, and this will forever
be the end of the world.

gutterlings, foreign and trembling,
lie side by side in the ditches they
have dug so poorly.

this is not a poem. you are not a
poor little boy. I am not your mother
who thinks you are a man.