04 Nov 2025 1 min read poetry

the goofy ass angel of death, 1

I was there when the goofy ass angel of death came down
in his good suit and borrowed light, the Walmart halo ‘round
His appellation wound, squeezing. Providence? Oversight.
Up so close he knew the smell of her breath and he liked it.

The crowd did rise like stalks of wheat to his hungry threshing,
and the idea was flailed to death; complete. Then, addressing
his craning neck; hot like the holster of a gun in heat
His turgid hate did so find the stage set for ripe debate—

but he just theater-preached and said he’d been touched by the cause.

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