This poem belongs to a collection of poems called Year of the Wasp that I plan to publish in 2016. It has no title and could be deemed political.
Carnivore crows fly
east by west by south by north
to feast on the banquet of our duty—
mark time’s carrion compass course.
And it is a mystery to me
why the killers are heralded while the faceless dead
are said to blame.
And, I must confess, it is not just the sin
that sickens, but its plagiarism.
O country that is—that is not—my country,
that follows me home like some mongrel
on a dirt road that traces the spine of a broken levee
as backyard dogs goad themselves into a frenzy,
know this: I would rather shoot you for a stray
than follow your path another day.