burn all the money

you write me into existence with

those beautiful veined hands;

 

your phantom sweetness bleeding

through to greet-create me.

 

this world was made to be free,

to be met head-on with abandon:

 

rolling down a grassy hill, throwing

all your gold over a cliff into the sea.

 

do you hear me? all we need comes

from the earth; every-thing we eat:

 

grown up and out like what we know

in our roots to be the ancient

 

trees of self, of

abundant anti-greed.

 

 

 

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ink

this is not how it’s done.

this is not business as usual.

 

retirement is an illusion;

life is this, here, now.

 

the pain of the present can be counted

on to be capitalized: traded and

 

tucked into the pockets of those living

in penthouses above, outside of, time.

 

we say we want our freedom,

but we can’t handle it; we give

 

it away again and again to

the highest bidder, and we don’t

 

even get to see the profit margin:

it slinks off into the night like wet ink.

please

i want
to feel your thorns, run
my tongue up, down, over their peak,
let them cut me deep, make me weak,
make me bleed for you, seep into your
hungry mouth; i want to feel you come
apart when you taste me, take me
under, tear me open-asunder with
want and wait and need. i want
you greedy for only me, for my
teeth against your throat, my
adorned desire on its knees.
please.