I am damn, I am fuck, I am day, a man who
unties your legs, pants dropping down like a damp noose
untying itself, trying to strangle through sweat
all truth, breaking its neck, taking turns disproving
what misspent worthlessness they said suited us when
a poverty of riches couldn’t keep up with

this wealth of attention, this heaven bending with
plastic imprecision, orchestrating hard who
we are, rocking out of place, out of time, us when
we called up and stumbling clouds crashed loud symbols, news
to our eyes and our bled-dry ears, sounds disproving
bitter words we were so thirsty to hear god sweat.

                                               Scraping sin, a shell’s angles contain angels’ sweat
as if it were their sacred mission to cleanse with
it from themselves contamination disproving
existence of an afterlife, scrubbing saints who
abuse diplomatic immunity, to noose
noon-hour martyrs opportunistically when

too soon their pick-up lies drop, bowling their balls when
they go so low to get so high and blow such sweat
that it’s not converts, but their boners, on the news
shouting silently, defiantly, jubilant with
confusion, ‘The sky went and blue itself!’ those who
dig deep themselves, breaking wounds earth keeps disproving.

                                               In itching seasons, dirty nails scratch, disproving
the spelling of bewitching reasons to sleep when
grammarian demons come after all men who
rise above bad education, and like me, sweat
indignation, aiming our canons at them with
flaming sentences no preacher, no judge, no noose

can ever sever or stay, or keep off the news
or bury under stray glances, since disproving
truth is futile, and denying it, even with
spoiled legions of unjust cons, impossible when
the soil itself is tainted with paint artists sweat
as they write icons, and I myself, the one who

                        saw the deep, yes, he who pulled out and fell back when
                        existence wept, when life’s meaning came and I sweat
                        running from what I never questioned, ‘Jono who‽’