The Last Chronicles of Equestrianism
Is this how it feels to be a beautiful bullet
train or a forest fire throwing
a party on somebody’s life?
All the Christmas lights fall at once
from the trees and shatter
into so many punk-ass rainbows,
which is how a don’t-give-a-shit
universe chooses to celebrate
the New Year—Bud Light accompanied
by a severed arm in a burning field.
My shoulders become a rising
continent carrying infinite horses
into battle against a column
of pink smoke and a girl drowning
in a plastic bag. The adolescents
split into teams for the winter
and lope across strangled farmlands
to determine who will die in the
In the beginning, God cursed
Himself for the little stag
that impaled himself
on the tip of one universe
reaching into another, and
inside that crumbling body
haloed by strange teeth
and little purple flowers
will I build my church,
and the gates of this
sadness shall not prevail
against it. Hallelujah,
poppies in the field burst
like blood squeezed through
one million victorious fists.
Now enter the birth of the day.
Let a wheat-colored scrap
of fabric hang from your
Tie your shoelaces
to another person’s shoelaces,
then see how possible it is
to become a swan.
You might collapse
into a heap of light.
Now you may crawl
back to your unsettling oceans,
now you may release
your fuck-fierce kingdom of kites.