loneliness is next to godliness. i eat gods
like you for breakfast, sir. old gods i stir
into a roux into a good blood-root soup and
spoon into my children’s shining american
mouths. my children don’t exist because
i suck dicks like you for breakfast. my children
don’t exist because i fear my progeny
might be like you, cowering acrid penis,
mess of white nothing. so my family crossed
an ocean hella long ago and left their rotting
leather shoes behind. left their dead buried
in hillsides, began to dream this new language.
i hate this language precisely for how it hides.
how it says freedom and always means die.
Listen: sam sax reciting Epistle