Poetry Break: Tie-dye Children
Happy Easter, all. I’ll keep it short this week with a poem that’s completely unrelated to the holiday. As always, more can be found on my instagram.
We are tie-dyed children. We scrub hot pink vomit from the grout and the mortar that binds this American fever dream to crowbar windows. We shed bright blond blood for our parents and their Coltrane trumpets, their Smithsonian babelogues, and Dylanesque epics. We spark fluorescent blue fires in southern states, eastern tabernacles, and march into the boiling sea. We resist.