The anthill swelling

Things are liquid, lazy.
Moments and molecules and cities.
Things are solid, gravy.
Violent beings touching gently.
What Africa means to Africans
America to Americans, goodness
to devils whose pleasure
is the robbery of pleasure.
Fairness does not enter
the grave of little ants,
smellers of the simple life,
incapable of staring
or measly complaint.
Theirs must be a religion
one hears in the thorax,
in the artery yet young.
No religion like a hot shower.
No education like spread-eagle
aliens come down to preach
what hostile faces mean.
Dividing others is hard work,
fruitless as conversation
and impermanent well-being.
Adolescence is but a quick
prod painful as sitting
for the ants undreaming.


~ by Jeremy on April 10, 2012.

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