Dan A. Cardoza
We are born, raw ready for marinade, salt
pepper, lite spice. Open to cognitive
dissonance, art religion, love loss die, easy
peasy as breathing, ya right! Sure!
Then we get pounded, nearly pulverized,
beyond tender tell’ we soak up all those sticky
soft lies. We get infected with desire, swell
with want. We inhale it, low and deep. Tell’ we
Sickchoke on our grief.
The end so simple, a viscous cadaver in an
Arminie suit, a patch eyed pirate in a purple
We rest nest in Mother Earth to feed a dirt lined
hole, with moldy wings destined to fledge fly
toward heaven, our banana republic cloned