Mother, throw out your black pearls
and smudged the rain will make them.
Their shine become like our shine
under the dirt and hooves of anabasis
where we are the sodden and soiled;
balanced scales.
New wardrobes that convert office lighting
to pure vitamin MDMA
and new costumes
so that we may ritually beg for treats,
guised as the Imago Dei.
These are what Mother will bring
from the conference
in another state.
It’s all the same State.
Gathering now around that oak stand in
the kitchen. What ever was it for?
Here grandfather would act
as if memory reserves seats.
“We shall weigh sod and we shall weigh soil.”
Iron wrought scales know fuck all of anything
but the presupposition of balance.
Order? That comes
through the bark of a dog on
the television.
A hunter-gatherer picks at
Marlboroberries and he gives little heed
to black pearls,
partly obscured in the ashy loam,
smudges left from the oil of a Thumb.
Leave it to the police;
they have a database for this
type of shit.
—
Kai Edward Warmoth lives in central Indiana where he patiently awaits being cancelled or Waco’d, whatever comes first.
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