No effort required
when I’m trying to piss you off.

Women love to be shushed,
finger to their lips,
looks of quieting disconcertion.

If Earth warms,
while the heart harms
as the self scorn
labels, I, abrasive;
scarlet letters worn
where the stitch shows
fidget loose threads.

Baboons in captivity
tend to self mutilate,
aren’t we feeling inhuman
yet not so immune from
attempts to humiliate.

What glasses the sand in your eyes?
Gleam of the sun you haven’t seen?

May your stream of belief be diverted,
damn reservoir,
ain’t saving my any souls.
Gallons in the hold,
quarry’s stone dry
where it didn’t dig deep enough,
and all pale thirst.