Diaspora

"Is there even anywhere that's somewhere?"

Poems of praise and blame are worthless
Inflations of human balloons,
Inflamed, floating and guttering
Over history's miseries,

The lies of the tribes. On the beach
Of the black lake, scorched remnants lie
Still, cultures' cannibalism
Stalking their scraps like fat ravens.

The sentimental, communal
Croaking of well-fed creations
Consume us and then each other.
I prefer the jackals myself,

Bone-crackers, no sentimental
Bones in them. But I'm not myself
Late in the day. The monorhymes
Have bled down to dirt's church of crimes.